


Who Are We Really?

by InstantFire



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Abused Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Changing POV, Confusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fanon Characters, Gaslighting, Happy Ending, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, I don't write Thomas bc I don't like writing real people, Manipulation, Physical Abuse, The Mindscape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InstantFire/pseuds/InstantFire
Summary: Ask yourself : Do you really know your friends? Do they love you?Ask yourself : Do you really know your friends? Do they like you?Ask yourself : Do you really know who they are? How much longer can you take it?A shine or shimmer is not always light, and the dark of heart is never what is seems.If you're upset with the light sides, decode the binary I put in the bottom of chapter 1 (MAJOR SPOILERS)





	1. Do They?

**Author's Note:**

> There's abuse in this story. Warning for any triggers it could cause.

_Love Me?_

.

When someone knocks on your door at 3:00am it's never good news. Also, it's very annoying.

“Virgil? My apologies for waking you, but we have something important to discuss.” Other than the three precise knocks, Logan's voice is all that's heard. “Please come to the main room immediately.”

Normally, Virgil is awake at this time anyway, so it takes little energy getting up. Though Virgil may commonly be aware at this early hour, Logan is never. His precise sleep schedule is only interrupted when there's a very good reason. “Sure L, I'll be right down.” Virgil listens closely as footsteps fade away. If he's being honest, this interruption causes an unnerving feeling to creep down his neck.

In the dark, Virgil takes readying deep breaths. “It's probably nothing too bad, right?” This calming mantra sticks in his mind, he stands in the center of his room, readying to join the others. “Ok. Let's go.” One step at a time, until he reaches his door.

The first sign something is off, Virgil's door refuses to open. He always double checks his door for that issue. He always makes sure the door opens smoothly, it might prevent him from making a quick escape. I probably just need to oil it… Not the most convincing conclusion, but with no other explanation, it's the best he can come up with. That won't stop him from worrying.

The next sign that something is off is when he finally forces the door open and steps out, the world slips away, a dizzying sensation and tunnel vision follow. _Ugh, I must be getting sick._ This new conclusion feels as fickle as the last.

Decidedly unimportant for now, Virgil heads towards the commons. Before he enters the room to greet his fellow sides, he stills, listening to a hushed conversation.

“It’s getting to be quite the problem, wouldn’t you agree Patton?” That’s Logan.

“Well, I guess.” Patton is next.

Maybe they heard Virgil’s thoughts, or they just spotted him. Either way, the conversation abruptly ends. All heads turn, looking at the new addition. “Ah, perfect. Come sit down.”

“Um, so what’s so important that you needed to wake me at three in the morning?” Maybe a bit of a sassy retort. To be fair, Virgil really values his alone time, night is supposed to be just that.

Roman gestures across the table. “See? This is what I’ve been talking about!” 

“Calm down Roman.” Logan points before turning to Virgil and staring him down. “I assume you are aware of the increase of distress Thomas has been experiencing.”

“I mean yeah, but that’s because-”

“I wasn’t finished. Don’t interrupt.” It sounds like a polite reminder, but the harsh look sent his way makes Virgil think differently. “

“This isn’t my fault! I only deal with Thomas’s stress!

“Well it is in the name, Buddy. _Distress,_ This stress. Dis stress. Dis stress is your fault.” Virgil doesn’t enjoy Patton’s dad joke. The other’s do, if the chuckling means anything.

The conversation continued, Virgil, attempting to defend himself and the other three bringing up how he is at fault. As the conversation descends into its conclusion, Virgil’s eyes sting and his body shakes.

“Virgil, I know this is hard on you.” Patton sets a soft hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “We need to help Thomas and this might be the only way to do it. I promise it won’t be forever.”

Virgil gives a soft smile and nods. _I’ll do anything for Thomas. I’ll do anything for them._

The night continues, but before Virgil heads back to bed, Logan stands in front of him holding a small list. 

Rules:

  1. Internalize Stress
  2. Don’t Talk Back
  3. Apologize When Wrong



Punishments:

  1. Take Phone Away
  2. Stay In Room



Virgil was also given a daily schedule. Logan said it will help him maintain balance in his everyday life. This… this was kinda nice. They were trying to help him and help Thomas. 

“We just need to get Thomas at optimal health and then all will return to normal.

.

Finally back in bed, Virgil takes a moment to review the list, so he can help himself improve. First Step : Be Less Stressed. Easy. He could do that. With that, his head hits the pillow, off to dreamland he goes.

.

.

.

It’s Monday. Some say it is the bad apple of the bunch. Virgil is inclined to agree. 

_I can’t do this!_ In the middle of his room, Virgil sits, mind racing, heart pounding. _This is bad!_ The soft glow of the morning, contrast extremely with the tunnelling panic setting in. _Patton, I need Patton!_

The door feels so far away, each step slowly taking more of his already dwindling strength. _Open!_ Out he steps, only to be struck with a whirling sense of dizziness. _Bad! Bad!_ Stumbling. Patton’s door is in sight. _Too far._ But, he does it. A frantic knock later, he’s pulled into Patton’s room. He falls.

_Can’t talk! Can’t speak! Can’t breathe!_ Spinning. Swirling. Each second feeling like hours. Virgil’s chest is crushing. _It hurts!_

Distantly there’s counting to be heard. “In for five… Hold for seven… Out for four…” Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Seconds. Minutes. Then, seeing! Feeling! Breathing!

_It’s ok. I’m ok._ Virgil’s breath stills and stutters one last time. Now able to breathe, Virgil looks up to Patton. This isn’t good. The face that stares back isn’t a happy one. It’s barely an expression at all. Thanks to excellent observation skills, Virgil immediately recognizes the smallest of feelings. “Are you mad at me?”

“It’s not that I’m mad at you,” Patton breathes out heavily before continuing, “It’s just that, well, I really hoped that you could go at least _one_ day without this happening.” He steps back, giving Virgil the room to stand. Stand he does.

“Oh.” Virgil’s stunned for a second, almost in complete disbelief. _He really cares, he wants me to be better… right?_

.

.

.

The rest of the day passes by with little issue. Everyone still runs this way and that. Thomas has a lot on his plate, so they all keep busy. The hands on the clock turn, they turn until night. Such a busy day, so much to do, yet not enough time. The sky darkens, still, Virgil’s task have not been fulfilled. He can’t sleep! He needs to finish!

_Too much! Too much! I can’t do this! I want to sleep! Can’t!_ Eyes dark and wide in panic, flight instincts are kicking in hard. _Have to run! Have to go!_ The walls cave in, his adrenaline skyrockets. _Patton! I need Patton!_ The morning seems to repeat. Stumbling to the door. Dizziness taking over. To the door! The knocks sounds like thunder. It opens.

Again, “In for five… Hold for seven… Out for four…”

The storm calms once more, Virgil is steady, calm and grounded. His hands wipe his eyes, then those eyes meet Patton’s own. _Oh._

Not getting a chance to speak or explain, Virgil follows Patton’s every move. “I’m glad you came to get me, I really am.” _Good, he’s not mad._ “But…” _But?_ “This is the second one today.” Uncharacteristically, Patton rolls his eyes and turns away.

“It can’t… I can’t control them.”

“ _I know…”_ Patton heaves an annoyed sigh. “Could you at least try a little harder? Please?”

“Ok, I can do that.”

_It’s ok because Patton loves me_

.

.

.

Tuesday, the second day of the week, similar to Monday. Yet, somehow less despised. Could it be that people become less aware and more accepting?

If thinking was an option just now, Virgil would have gladly taken it; the reality of thought would be simply impossible. There seems to be a heavy sheet of exhaustion hanging around. Persistent and begging for attention, much like a puppy, except this is an old dog, worn, sad, hanging onto his last days.

As previously stated, Virgil cannot think. Every hour he would glance at the clock, hoping the night was over. When it was, no sleep had been given.

A task, a monumental task is placed on his shoulders. Barely thinking, Virgil shuffles to Logan’s room. _He thinks. He will help. Tired._

Of course, Logan is almost exactly where Virgil predicted. His room is slightly askew, meaning there are two papers lying on the ground. For Logan, that qualifies as a disaster. 

_Logan must also be having a rough day, his desk is on the wrong side of his room, heh._ “Hey Logan?” Virgil stops a few feet away.

“Why are you in my room?” Logan snaps. 

_Okayyyy, he’s probably as stressed as I am._ Virgil freezes, pausing.

“Well? If you are here to waste my time, I will not hesitate to discipline.” Sharp as a knife and cold as his heart.

“Wow, aren’t you pleasant to be around.”

“Virgil. If you remember one of our rules, to help Thomas, was for you to stop speaking back. That unnecessary and honestly you seem to think I am inferior.” 

“What!? No! I was just- ugh. Sorry Logan, I won’t happen again.” 

“See to it that it doesn’t.” Logan punctuates.

Virgil held his head low, feeling a guilty rush and hot blush, nearly forgetting his purpose. “Um, I was wondering if you could help me with a problem I have? I’m kinda tired my brain isn’t working right.”

There’s a new rant in town. “Are you stating that the reason you have asked for _my_ help, is to avoid doing your work, giving me extra work, _despite_ the fact that I have _much_ more work than you!?” Logan pauses for a breath before starting a new. “Why on earth are _you_ tired? The previous day you did little to no work! In addition to the rest _,_ you are not sticking to the schedule I slaved over! Do you think that lowly of my work?!” 

“NO! No. That’s not what I meant at all! Sorry. I really love the schedule! I’ll work better! Sorry for trying to make you work more.” Without even a quick goodbye, Virgil sinks out into his room, accompanied by a bout of dizziness, and consequently a panic attack follows close behind. He keeps it to himself.

_._

Still exhausted, Virgil, with eyes falling shut, drags himself to his door. A hand cuts off his attempts. Sluggishly, he gazes upwards, Logan staring down at him.

A fumbled question of, “What?” is spewed, unknowing if it can even be interpreted. 

Howbeit, Logan catches on. “As you have recently been complaining about lack of sleep,” He sounded miffed. Virgil lowered his gaze. “I have come up with the solution, as well as a disciplinary action, to ensure you will not stay up. Hand over your phone.”

“What? No! You know I can’t sleep well without my music! It helps with any nightma-”

A glare is passed his way. Virgil shuts up, his hope for a peaceful sleep interrupted when Logan snatches the mentioned phone from his grasp. Defeated, Virgil enters his, now daunting room, preparing for a war of sleep. 

_It’s ok because Logan loves me._

.

.

.

Ah, Wednesday, nearly the same as Tuesday, a beautiful piece added to the week. At this point, everyone feels compliant to the schedule, routines anticipated. 

This day started long before it was a day. Yesterday melded with now, sans a line to place a divide. Safe to say, Virgil did not acquire nil a trace of sleep.

Groggily, Virgil makes his way downstairs, senses dulled, reactions little to none. 

Now, he’s gone much longer without rest, yet for some reason, this night drained him than normal. _Maybe it’s because they ~~won’t~~ can’t help me. I’m alone._

Straight to the coffee he goes, a small thrill of happiness accompanied by the fact it was already hot and ready. Virgil drowns the whole pot, even some leftover coffee grounds resting at the bottom. Content, he starts moving back to his room.

“VIRGIL!” Surprise! It’s a loud, angry Prince. “Are you serious?! That pot was mine! Why in Disney’s good name would you think it’s ok to steal?!”

“Steal? I wasn’t doing that, geez." 

“What a great person you are! Stealing my stuff _and_ having the audacity to mock me.” 

“I didn’t mean to! I’ll make you another pot.”

“I don’t want another pot! I wanted the one _you_ stole!” At this point, Roman is gesturing wildly. Arms flailing about, grazing against Virgil every so often. “You’re an idiot! Logan and Patton would never do this! I can’t tell if you are genuinely stupid or just love being an asshole! Both! You are both!”

Not wanting to anger him and further, Virgil backsteps, like one would to avoid the wrath of a wild dog, it was almost the same, sauf for the sword Roman begins to draw.

Virgil doesn't even give him a chance to explain his behaviour, he bolts out the kitchen, up the stairs, down the hallway and into his dizzying room.

“GET BACK HERE YOU COWARD!” 

Virgil runs to his bathroom, sliding on the smooth tile, emptying the stolen coffee, making it his no more. _Roman’s just grumpy, he didn’t mean that as a threat. He’s just mad because I stole his coffee, that’s it. It’s my fault anyways. I should do something to make it up to him._

.

By the time it was lunch, Virgil, alone, shrouded in near moving darkness, has found seventy-two different ways in order to correct his mistake. _Most of them are stupid. Kinda like me, I guess._

Being it a small skip over twelve o’clock, the anxious side awaits the usual knock at his door, signalling lunch was prepared. Yet, none came. Eyes occasionally flicking towards the door, anticipating the oncoming interruption. Biting his lip and rubbing his hands, Virgil decides solving the issue would be in his best interests. 

Down the stairs he goes, but not before emerging to the embrace of dizziness. In a mix of fear and exhaustion, Virgil fails to notice the chatter before bursting into the kitchen. What he finds is comforting in the fact that everyone is fine, but heart-breaking as Patton, Roman and Logan are all set around the table, enjoying lunch. They pause when he enters.

The best choice would be to not comment, the sane choice would be to not glare, the safest choice would be to return to his room. Virgil does none of these.

“Thanks for inviting me. Really appreciate it.” 

The room goes silent for a mere moment, Roman decides to break it. “Do you seriously forget the “no sass” rule? We’ve had to remind you over and over dumbass.”

No one jumps to defend him. Logan stares blankly, seemingly deaf to the world; Patton, who would normally scold for that harsh language, now finds his shoes to be deeply fascinating. The only solution to this problem is to apologize and retreat, and so Virgil does.

.

The rest of the day seemingly repeats the same pattern, running along a hamster wheel, running with all the strength he possesses yet never moving on. Nothing Virgil does is enough. Perfection is not enough. Yet, past perfection there is none. Roman frequently sinks into Virgil’s dorm, no matter the state, there’s always something to belittle. The style is wrong, this looks foolish, anyone could do better, sloppy, useless, dull. Perfection is an endless war, Roman’s expectations will never be reached, it will never be perfection as his expectations are infinite. Nothing would satisfy a starving pack of wolves. There is no end only a circle of desperation to please

_It’s ok because Roman loves me_

.

.

.

Thursday, this is the day when spirits fall. The weeks event push down, the desperation for the week to conclude often drives men past the point of focus. Only the thought of better times remain.

Does a man who breaks really a man at all? Perspective would certainly come to play. A man who breaks a plate would most certainly still be a man. On the other hand, if a man’s identity falls, who remains?

Staying on Logan’s strict schedule takes discipline and dedication. Sometimes Virgil wonders if it’s supposed to be difficult. Six hours of sleep a day feels unreasonable; every time Virgil approaches Logan to question it, Logan looks hurt. The look causes Virgil to backtrack, hating to see any of the sides in distress. _Weak._

Today, Virgil has decided to approach Patton to bring up this topic. Surely he will understand. 

“Hey Patton?” Oddly enough Virgil found Patton browsing his phone. Normally the moral side is never simply lazing around. With such positive energy Patton bounces around. Whether is be baking, cleaning or visiting the others, he is never so still.

The only way Virgil is acknowledged is by a disinterested grunt. “You ok? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you just chill around.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying I’m being lazy? Am I not allowed to relax?” 

“Wait no! That’s not what I meant. I meant th- Ugh it doesn't matter, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

With an annoyed grunt, Patton sits up and finally faces Virgil. “Well? Hurry it up.”

_Patton must be in a bad mood today. He never talks like this._

“Logan made me this schedule, and it’s really hard to follow. I barely have time to eat or sleep. It’s honestly getting worse.”

“That’s what you’re interrupting me with?” Now Patton sounds fully irked. Virgil slinks back. “Look, I wouldn’t lie, Logan did so much research to make it perfect for you. You just can’t stay this way Virgil.”

“What way?”

“Y’know... “ Patton gestures.

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“Exactly. Plus, you caused this, you weren’t doing good enough, so we’re trying to help.”

“How is it my fault?!” 

“You’re saying it’s my fault?”

“No?” Virgil begins to feel nauseous. _This isn’t what I had in mind. Am I really hurting them?_

Then it must be someone else's fault. Are you blaming Roman? How about Logan, who sacrificed so much of _his_ time for you?”

“No! Of course not!” This conversation is a metaphorical Ping-Pong match. _I don’t think I’m winning…_

“Oh well then, it's you at fault.”

“What?” _Is it_?

“You’re the only one that’s left, right?”

Remorse finds Virgil, it hides in the corner, ready to sink its teeth deep in his mind. _How could I think this way? I should be thankful!_

“I think you should go to your room for a while. I don’t want to see you until you’re ready to accept you’re not as nice as you think you are.” A cold stare is the last view Virgil remembers as he returns to his room.

_It’s ok because Patton loves me_

.

.

.

Friday. The day of finality. A day to celebrate. Weekend follows, thus it is time to enjoy what the world brings.

Virgil can’t move. No matter how he tries, how badly he wants to retreat to his room, all he can do is stay on the main couch and cry. Crying might be an understatement. Barely breathing, tears falling like a dam breaking, hearing blood rush through his head and sobs so heavy the couch begins to shake, would be more accurate. _BAD! BAD! BAD! HURT! I CAN’T DO THIS! I CAN’T DO THIS! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!_ Everything is too loud, each creak and groan splitting his head. Every touch feeling like both fire and ice. 

_No one’s coming to help. No one’s here to help. Busy? They must be busy! They always would help me through this!_

Vaguely, Virgil hears the sound of footsteps, he sees a flash of blue. _Logan? He’ll help!_ No help comes. The figure disappears. Returning to the hole it came from. _Please! Logan?!_ Now, sobs worsen and shaking feels as if his very bones were trying to break. Again, no one comes.

Virgil is stuck in a state for the lonely. A sickening lost cloud of dust, endless, without purpose. It shakes and groans, reminding you people are there, just not there for you. 

If forever were a feeling, it embraces Virgil completely. Howbeit, forever does not feel. Passing hours, Virgil’s personal torture dies off. The grave it falls in, can and will be raised again. For now, it lies dormant. 

“Good.” 

Virgil’s head swing to the voice, once a sound of reality of grounding, now a distant buzz, bringing about a sense of dread. 

“There that's better. I’m glad you finally finished.” Logic.

Too exhausted to speak, Virgil solely rests in silence, neglected. 

“I figured it would be wise to leave you alone for two reasons. One, it takes precious time to make you stop. Two, I figured it’s time that you figure out ways to calm yourself.”

All Virgil wants to do is sleep, Logan continues to talk. At any point Virgil drifts off, he’s startled by the phrase, “Are you even listening?!” It seems as though Logic has lost his logic. _Logan knows I can’t control my attacks._

Nearly an hour passes before every noise turns to static, Virgil’s eyes blur. _Am I underwater? I feel funny._ Sinking further down, the darkness of the sea claims his body; pulled onward to depth unknown. A final thought flashes in Virgil’s mind.

_It’s ok because Logan loves me_

.

.

.

Finally Saturday comes around the corner. Nay a surprised, yet a sense of relief falls. Such a boy without end, energy flows about with renewed vigor. With that fact in mind, is energy fundamentally positive? 

Finally, some peace. A long week has passed, strange encounters have passed. Though Virgil is inherently a pessimist, he truly believes once Thomas’s quandaries are solved all will return to its previous state. His brother’s will apologize and everything will begin as it was. Here and now, Virgil will react with support, take all my say with a grain of salt. _I know they don’t really mean the things they say. Besides, I know I’m really hard to deal with even on my best days._ Now peace will do.

“VIRGIL!” Who needed peace anyway. An irate Roman pops into his room. 

Surprised at the lack of tact, _they always knock,_ the anxious’s sides heart stutters similar to the words that spill from his mouth. 

“Y-yes?” Ah, what an elegant response.

"I’m not sure if you’ve noticed with your head in your ass, but Thomas hasn’t been getting any better! In fact, he’s been getting worse!” Roman storms around his room, occasionally picking up an item then chucking it to the ground. 

Mentality in near tatters, fragility of mind, a vice around his heart, Virgil stays frozen, fears of Roman’s actions keeping his instincts barely below his skin. “Roman,” He pleads, “Please calm down. I promise that I didn’t do anything.”

Roman screams, “STOP MAKING EXCUSES!”

“I promise it’s really no-”

“I’M SICK AND TIRED OF YOU GETTING OFF EASY! YOU KEEP HURTING THOMAS!”

Virgil watches the next moments as if stuck in slow motion, he could block, he could duck or do anything long before the impact, yet he stays in place. A palm sharply connects with his face. The action anticipated yet shocking nonetheless. In a second it’s over. Hurt blossomed, not from the sideswipe, it’s the mental pain that gifts him with heartsickness. If pain was not there, why did it hurt so bad?

Things only decline from there.

.

“Virgil. We need you to start doing more work around here, we’re all too busy helping Thomas during this _stressful_ time.” Stressful was wildly enunciated, shot at Virgil, piercing twin to an arrow.

“Ok, I can do that.” He does.

.

“Virgil, you’re so stupid!” Roman mocks.

“Well you’re no brainiac your-”

A second slap on this day. 

“What did we say about talking back?”

.

Virgil now nods and agrees. It hurts, brightly, he feels relief when Roman smiles at his agreement. 

_It’s ok because Roman loves me_

_._

_._

_._

Along with Sunday the days make seven. Religious men beware, the day of sinners has come about. For most, this day is the beginning, for others, the end. 

Virgil is certainly _not_ hiding in his room. He is _not_ scared of the others. He is _not_ breaking at the words hurled, faces of disappointment, or demeaning lectures. _They want what’s best._ Maybe it’s best to hole away in his room for the time being. 

_It’s ok because… because…_

.

.

.

_Answer : No_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_If you're unhappy the light sides are mean - here's a major spoiler. (Convert this binary to words)_

_01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101100 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 00100000 01110011 01101001 01100100 01100101 01110011 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101111 00100000 01101000 01110101 01110010 01110100 00100000 01010110 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01100001 01110010 01101011 01110011 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01100100 01101001 01110011 01100111 01110101 01101001 01110011 01100101 00101110 0001010 01001001 01100110 00100000 01010110 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100100 01101001 01111010 01111010 01111001 00100000 01100001 01100110 01110100 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110110 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101101 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01101101 01100101 01100001 01101110 01110011 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100111 01110011 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01100100 01100001 01110010 01101011 00100000 01110011 01101001 01100100 01100101 01110011_


	2. Is He?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning : Graphic Abuse  
> This is also written mostly from the victims perspective, expect self blaming and the likes.

_ Ok? _

_. _

There’s no denying the darkness in the room. During these times, dusk settles as a light sheet. Quiet and comforting. 

In the living room sits Patton, Roman and Logan; they watch the stairs, exchanging idle words. Rarely an outside peep. The world is sleeping. Much like the three sides should be.

“Are you sure he’s coming?” Patton glances up at the stairwell. 

Roman twiddles his hands impatiently. “Are you sure you asked him?” 

“Yes, to the both of you. Virgil assured us that he would join momentarily.” Despite acting calm, Logan feels slightly off-put. The youngest always came down when asked. Like a child, he tries to please all. 

“Did he fall back asleep? Poor Virge has been working overtime.” 

The clock passes a tock over three, yet nothing occurs. No face peeking around the wall, no small steps descending towards them, no grumpy words complaining about interrupted rest. Only the nothing which falls around all.

Roman is first to share his input. “I don’t think Gloom and Doom is going to show up.” 

“We should probably get back to bed, if we don’t get all our sweet dreams, we’ll be bitter in the morning.” Patton adds.

With Logan’s reluctant agreement, up the stairs they climb, entering their respective rooms. Logan takes one last glance into the dark in which Virgil’s door is shrouded, he shakes his head and opens his own.

.

What continues is time, the tick of the clock and the turn of days. What does not continue, is the presence of the anxious side. 

Though it is hardly uncommon for Virgil to lock himself in his room for many hours, the past couple years he has been interacting far more frequently. He was an extension of their little family, a new limb which now they could not balance without. It was common for him to come out for long periods of time, sitting in silence, enjoying the mere presence of the other sides. It was common to watch him silently appear for every meal, movie night, any activity just for the sake of being near. Of course, he still needed much time to himself. That said, his new behaviour is uncommon.

What repeats, are the excuses. “I’m working”, “I’m trying to sleep”, “Leave me alone”. Every one feels less and less genuine. What does not happen is comfort from Virgil’s lack of companionship.

.

The end of this synchronized dance concludes after the week passes, now starting anew. The absence of one of their own becomes too concerning to ignore.

Logan, Roman and Patton as a group all stand, they, a wall surrounding the locked door. 

“I think that at this point we have to drag him out by force.” 

Patton rubs his hands nervously together, much less confident than Roman’s approach. “Is this really a good idea? I mean we’re breaking into his room! That’s not a very nice thing to do.”

“That’s ok Padre! I’ll do it myself!” No hesitation, Roman tries to sink, striking his dramatic pose. 

“Are… are you going?” Patton asks, watching Roman hold his pose, yet stands idle.

A pause. 

Roman abandons his dramatic pose in favour for one of frustration. “I was trying.” 

“He has locked us out? Huh. This is an occurrence which has not been active since the prior times of his acceptance,” Logan tries to piece this together. The clues won’t fall to their places.

Patton, an optimist till the end, speaks, “Let’s just ask one more time. Maybe we can convince him?” 

“That sure worked the last five-hundred times we tried.” The Prince sulks, arms crossed.

“It is unhealthy for Virgil to remain in his room for such extended periods of time. Still, one last attempt shall be worthwhile.”

With a reluctant sigh from Roman, an energetic nod of agreement from Patton, and a confirming hum from Logan, they knock once more. 

For a beat, nothing happens. 

Finally, a muffled voice responds. “What do you want? I keep telling you! I’m busy!” Ah what a pleasant reply. 

“Come on Grim Groundhog! We want to see your shadow!”

“Roman, are you aware, in that,  _ extremely inaccurate, _ tale, if the groundhog sees its shadow, it will retreat to his den, then conceal itself for six more weeks?”

“ _ I do now. Thanks.” _

“You do not look very thankful. However I will accept your gratitude nonetheless.”

“ _ Wow _ .  _ Fantastic _ . Thanks for including me in this  _ riveting  _ conversation. Go away now.” Even though it’s muffled, Virgil’s pure sarcasm could permeate even the thickest of walls.

“Kiddo, I hate to say this, but if you won’t come out, I’m going to get Thomas to drag you out himself.” Patton’s threats are always soft, never anything severe. This one is no different. 

Virgil’s reaction is opposite of soft, while normally he may grunt or reluctantly obey, he has never raised his voice after such a small threat. Until now that is.

“NO! DON’T YOU DARE!” Virgil’s voice doesn't sound panicked, it sounds threatening. 

Seemingly unfazed, Patton continues. “We’ll see you for supper, ok? Thomas can hang out with us!” Another vague, still soft, threat. 

The reflection of Patton’s words are not reciprocated. For now they will wait. If supper comes and goes without a fourth side present, more drastic measures will be taken. 

.

Nearly finished with cooking supper, the aftermath of said cookery spreads across the kitchen and dining room. A river of water spilled on the floor marks the attempted (and failed) washing the dishes. Jungles of various vegetables are strewn across the countertops, sprinkled by dough and batter, giving it a light snow. Plates, bowls and utensils finish the scene, such a picturesque definition of cooking chaos.

The logic behind this free-for-all feast being, “We haven't had a nice family meal in forever!”

To which Logan replied, “Voraciously, the interval between our last meal as a whole, and our subsequent one has been seven days and 16 hours exactly.” 

“Yeah! Just like I said! Forever!” 

The small exchange is followed by the disastrous preparation of this grand meal.

The table is gathered around, on-top resides various plates of food. Whether it be, blueberry muffins, mashed-potatoes, roasted ham or anything other thought-of foods, it could be found here. The only thing missing is Virgil. As the meal begins to cool, worry follows along.

“He couldn’t be too upset by us,” Patton says, “he didn’t even use his scary voice!” 

Even with Patton’s reassurance, they all feel something amiss.

Eventually, Virgil descends, it’s a miracle. Despite locking himself away, he currently looks fine, just as though he was never away. Eyes bright, posture straight, looking more alive than ever. 

Logan feels guilt for his suspicion, feeling as though an imposter walks amid them. Of course Virgil would be fine. He’s clearly gotten enough sleep, being in his room was most likely relaxing. The introvert side most likely enjoyed every second of isolation. There’s no reason to read between the lines when nothing is hidden within. 

Surely though, this must be a disaster in the making, a buried mine, waiting for the slightest pressure in order to explode, leaving a mess in its wake. Being without company for so long would make socialization more tense and awkward. 

Strangely enough, the meal is completely pleasant. Virgil compliments the food, exchanges peaceful conversation and listens quietly as the others share stories. Everything goes smoothly. Not quite as it was a week ago, but maybe this new cocoon will emerge a beautiful butterfly. 

Such hopes last until the meal finishes. The moment when Virgil sees them all leaning back, stomachs full and spirits high, he departs. Only when a stiff goodbye, the promise of returning for breakfast, does Virgil depart. Only when Virgil begins to sink out does Logan notice the absent sweater, a sweater that is always,  _ always,  _ worn by said side.

Maybe the aforementioned butterfly is a moth, not as glorious, but still a fresh change from the cocoon of isolation. At least, that’s the truth Logan will convince himself.

.

The near idol behaviour continues to stack, bricks on bricks of hope which inevitably crumble into disappointment. 

Virgil rarely accompanies them to activities, when he does, it comes to no surprise that he always leaves the second he can be excused. After weeks of such behaviour, this new routine clicks itself into place. Still, no matter how normal it becomes, it never feels right.

For all that, they leave him be, afraid to push Virgil further lest he disappear completely.

.

.

.

It’s cruel what life deals, whether you fold or go all in, the ever-turning clock slows for no mortal. You can bet all you have, then watch as it all falls apart. You lose. Life continues. 

Every week the rules get more strict and the punishments grow more severe. Rules have increased, mounting in severity, rippling across day to day life.

**Rules:**

  * ****Internalize Your Stress****


  * **Never Talk Back**


  * **Apologize When Wrong**



The first three rules are mostly manageable, mainly goals that Virgil tries to accomplish. Yet, in times to come, he’s shown little to no mercy.

.

**Rule 4 : Be Grateful - No Complaining**

He’s sulking, he’s aware of his sulking and still, Virgil refuses to stop. Needless to say, lately has not been the best of times. Scratch that, it feels worse, familiar in a sense he hates. 

Avoiding the inevitable confrontation, he makes a small plan. First, bring up the fact that whatever is happening is not working.  _ Easy _ . Second, listen to their opinions.  _ Good _ . Third, work with them to make the correct changes.  _ No problem _ . Fourth, make sure everything returns to normal.  _ This will work _ .

With the confidence to act, Virgil makes his way into the living room. Luck is on his side, everyone in with he wants to speak, are all convened on the couch. 

Before losing his will, Virgil begins to speak, “I don’t think these rules and schedules are helping me.” He holds his breath, anticipating the response soon given. There is no response, all he gets is mounting tension. 

_ Not so easy.  _

Roman gives the awaited response, “Helping  _ you _ ? Is that all you think about? Yourself?” Voices begin to rise. 

_ This is a problem.  _

“Wait. No, that wasn-” Virgil should know by now, pleading is pointless.

**** Roman starts yelling, Virgil tries to listen. Ears ringing, eyes stinging, he pays as much attention, listening to their opinions as possible. “Why must you always ask for more?!”, “You never appreciate what we do for you!”, “I thought you were better than this!”. They all hurt of course, but there is one, one that stings the most, which hits deep in his heart, “Do you even care about Thomas?! About us?!” 

_ Bad. _

Despite the need to defend himself, the barrage of lectures cannot be passed. Virgil’s a boat, trying in vain to cross a raging current. His boat is sinking fast.

_ This is a problem. _

“You aren’t even paying attention!” Patton’s scream engulfs the cacophony, a note louder in such a song of disarray. “If you can’t learn with words, maybe you should learn by experience.” 

Within a blink, Virgil’s arms are grabbed, hands finding his sweater and tearing at the zipper. A flurry of motions pass, next thing he knows, Virgil watches his sweater being torn from his grasp, now residing in Patton’s. 

Virgil screams begs and pleads, his sweater viciously stabbed and cut with scissors and knives. No one pays any-mind to the promises for betterment or bargains spilling out from Virgil’s mouth. He gives up trying when his throat is raw. All Virgil can do is sink down on his knees, defeated.

“Now thank us.” Who says that, Virgil cares not. The violence has ended, the war continues.

“Thank you.” Virgil stares in shock, his sweater (if one could even call it such) shredded in front of his eyes, tossed like garbage back to him. “Thank you for giving me all I have. I… I promise I’ll never complain again.” A part of him dies with that sweater.

Roman and Logan have left, Patton remains standing threateningly, above a lost figures form. “Maybe now you’ll start thanking us for all we do. Who knows what could happen.” Virgil thinks Patton knows. “You only learn to appreciate what you have when it’s gone.” With that, Patton leaves the room, vague threat lingering silently in the air.  _ This won’t work. _

The second he’s alone, Virgil crawls over to his favourite sweater, miserably picking it up, trying to wear it like he did only minutes ago. It falls apart, seems tearing, fabric falling apart in his very hands. He shakes, sobbing breathlessly. 

With a scattered mind and weeping heart, Virgil is left crying on the floor, clutching desperately at the last drops of love sinking away from the rags he holds. The broken boy tries in vain to elude a panic attack’s clenching teeth. 

One can only guess if he succeeded.

.

**Rule 5 : Don’t Lie**

It’s quite a simple request, children all over the world are taught the negatives of such mendacious actions. A lie is comparable to a pool. Said pool begins empty, clean and untouched. Every time a fib tries to be disguised as truth, the lie drips in, filling the previously empty basin. These lies will only continue to mount, the pool turning filthy, depths of unknown range. Inevitably, this pool will flow-over, ruining all which it surrounded.

“Who is responsible for this?!” A half soaked notepad is lifted in the air, Logan standing right behind, furious. 

“Virgil did.” Patton says, “I watched him do it.”

A cold shock stops Virgil heart.  _ I know Patton hates lying, he’s just doing what’s right.  _ He tries to lie motionless, acting as though he hadn’t heard a word. It’s a fruitless effort, he’s only putting off the inevitable. 

Logan storms over to confront the guilty side. Ripping Virgil of his only defense, The air chills around them. It all feels so daunting. “Explain!” One word holds so much more than a simple command. 

“I-I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me, I swear!” Plan A, denial.

Two piercing glares and one sharp cuff to his face later, Virgil knows Plan A has failed.

If the first plan fails, always resort to the next. Plan B. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I was just scared!” Begging. That’s the next plan.

“Exceedingly weak. Not even capable to face reality, so you resort to pathetically crawling for forgiveness? I hoped you were to be fight-or-flight. You chose neither. If you are not either, then you are nothing.”

“Lying is always bad, Virgil.” Patton shares his input, voice loud enough to be heard a room away. 

Deflated, Virgil knows they’re both speaking the truth. Logan is the smart one and Patton knows morals better than them all.

So, Plan B failed. Off to Plan C, reasoning. “But, what if the “murderer looking to kill your friend” situation happens? Didn’t we agree it was fine to lie?” Hopefully this can calm the situation. Logan always enjoys discussing topics such as these.

Logan did not take the bait. “Are you being smart with me?” He scolds, “either way, I strongly doubt that will ever happen to you.” 

“Mostly because he has no friends,” Roman mocks. Virgil never heard him arrive, now his stress mounts higher.

“Ca-”, A hand tears Virgil’s hair, sending him off the couch, he lands on his side, head sipping, then gasping airily as a foot connects to his stomach. He can only heave, clutching tightly around his middle, no air to breathe.

With his first gasp of air, Virgil chokes out, “I’m  _ really _ sorry!” Feeling his chest constricting, all Virgil can do now is grovel.

Patton arrives at his side and tsks, pushing Virgil’s face further into the carpet. “Oh, Virgil, lying is not a good look on you.”

Virgil is two-faced, Patton stares into the eyes of both.

He convinces himself, he tells himself, he lies to himself. Virgil is patient, he dares say the most patient of them all. However, even saints can be corrupted with the right amount of pressure. Today is Virgil’s immoral day.

It all starts as normal, failing, hurting and disappointing the other sides is nothing new. Yet, today is a standoff, sick of being pushed around, a small rebellion has formed. The Peasant fighting the Kings. 

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore!”

Rebellions always start off slow, ignoring the rules or defying the law. Of course it comes with consequences, a slap here, a punch there. Virgil can take it. 

“Why am I the only one who has to obey?!”

The rebellion rises to a revolt, voices screaming to be heard, hands pushing back against a cruel dictatorship. 

“No, I’m not crazy!”

Roman, Logan and Patton, the unstoppable force. Virgil, the immovable object. 

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” The sword hits its mark, Virgil’s pride won. It was an uphill battle all the way, but finally Patton, Roman and Logan say nothing more.

The victory is short-lived, there’s an eerie ringing in the air, a snap, then, nothing.

It appears his weapon is a double-edged sword. 

Has he gone blind? When did he close his eyes? There’s nothing. Darker than black, a void which surrounds Virgil, his senses dulled, disconnected from his body. The second he spreads his arms, they strike burning metal. It burns far more than hot, it’s skin-peeling cold. 

Virgil yelps, falling back to another wall, his spine freezes. With barely two brushes, his very core shivers and shakes. This is nothing. No cold, no sight, only his mind to keep him company, though it’s not very good company.  _ Stupid Virgil, trying to best them. What was I expecting? Just shows how competent I am. _

To surpass the cold, Virgil found it necessary to huddle himself, avoiding the touch of the cold hell around him. Time didn’t exist here, just short breaths, panic and the ever-crushing loneliness. 

The worst was being unable to escape mentally. Whenever sleep tries to wrap Virgil in blissful nothingness, he would roll, sending his body into shock with the very touch of support. 

Eventually he broke. His rebellion falling, replaced by a small peddler, trying to survive, begging for mercy. “Puh-puh-plea-please.” The lack of touch, the sensory deprivation, there was no spirit left in him. The more desperate Virgil became, the more he craved to feel, he needed  _ something _ . This something comes in the form of pressing his body flesh against the wall, slamming his head anywhere where solidity is found, tearing hair, scratching his arms just to feel the warmth of blood. 

The pleas continue, with no response, freezing in the air. Eventually it all dies out, Virgil welcomes the throws of unconsciousness scraping into his head. 

An eerie ringing, a snap, Virgil is gone. 

Awoken once more, this time in absolute bliss. Virgil can see, bright lights and blurry bodies. He can feel, flesh greeting any contact like an old friend.

Virgil craved this, he needed this! Every punch, every kick, sent throes of agony, sinking into every inch of the body. But, it was  _ touch!  _ Sweet-bitter, pleasurable-painful feeling! Virgil never wanted it to end. Crestfallen the law of “all good things must come to an end” weighs true. 

Through his blood, sweat and tears, Virgil watches them leave.

“You’re nothing without us, understand?” Roman says. There’s only one answer to this question.

“Yes… I understand.”

Virgil learns that his lies hurt. They hurt a lot. They sting, they bruise, they bleed. Virgil doesn't lie anymore.

.

**Rule 6 : Pull Your Own Weight**

The days seem to move smoother than ever. Virgil finds there is safety in acceptance. He now knows what to expect, what to do. As long as the routine sticks, everything else is handled with ease.

Most days, Roman, Patton and Logan beat Virgil, leaving him crying, hurting on the floor, occasionally coming back, kicking him down in turn. Often, he would spend the entire day there, on the ground, never finding the energy to do much else.

One day, Virgil is lying on his bed of rug, becoming well acquainted with the carpet. Why, they might as well be soulmates at this point. Anyways, this little fairytale is interrupted by a pair of feet blocking his wonderful view of the lint under the couch. Virgil looks up the tower before him. Patton stands, a centurion above him. 

Muddling the sentence in is head, the only words Virgil catches are, “...we’re expecting it daily.”

“Whu…?” Blood spills in his mouth, Virgil swallows it like a fine wine. 

Patton gives him an extremely exasperated sigh, repeating his phrase once more, “All you’ve been doing lately is lazing on the ground. We really need you to start pulling your weight around here.” 

A gurgle is all Virgil can manage, maybe he’s secretly the silent siren, voice stolen in exchange for freedom. This freedom is not very exciting. Virgil wants his voice back.

Roman enters the frame, “We’ve been working so hard. Everyday all we do is take care of Thomas and you, but you never thank us, you never try to repay us.”

_ “Gurgle, gurgle…” _

“We have provided a small list you will follow for future events. It begins as of now.” Logan is third to talk, he finishes by dropping a paper next to Virgil. It falls like a feather, plucked from the freedom of the sky, enslaved by gravity’s cage.

Movement is tough, Virgil is tougher. Eventually he gets his prize. It reads,

**Daily Agenda**

  * ****Clean****


  * **Bathroom**


  * **Kitchen**


  * **Livingroom**


  * **Vacum**


  * **Dust**


  * **Sweep**


  * **Dishes**


  * **Laundry**


  * **Cook**


  * **Breakfast**


  * **Lunch**


  * **Dinner**


  * **Snacks if requested**



  * ****Perform other tasks requested****



This is fair, this makes sense. Virgil has been idle as of recent. Now it turns out, Virgil is no longer a siren, he’s a lost prince of cinders.

The lethargy abandons Virgil’s bones, replaced by the fire of panic, looking to the clock, there’s merely an hour left until dinner is expected. After struggling for a few minutes, Virgil finds his sea legs. Feet shuffling, eyes glossing over, he eventually slides into the kitchen.  _ What to make, what to make, what to make? _

Wait! First things first, sanitation. It takes a small while, having to stop periodically to hiss at the stinging of soap, or to spit some blood out. All in all, Virgil now has forty minutes left.  _ I can do this! _ His long hair ( _ when did I last cut it? _ ) sticks to his face, clotted together with blood. _ At least I won’t have to tie it back _ . Virgil has really learnt how to be optimistic lately.  _ I must be improving! _

Back to the task at hand, the final decision of what to cook is slotted into place. Virgil remembers, so long ago, a dish that Patton called, “Fun Filling Family Frenzy”. The ultimate family meal.

In the past, when Patton cooked a special dinner, Virgil gripped and groaned about participating in its bizarre traditions. Back then, he hated the “touchy-feely” moments, accidentally bumping hands or the loud laughter that followed. Virgil realizes how selfish he was, how much he took for granted. If he had a wish, Virgil would slap his past self for such disgusting behaviour. He settles for slapping his current self. It doesn't help much. 

A strange pang forms in his chest, not the type that physically hurt, this is the pain of loss, mourning, a memory lost to history. Thinking of what he once had, now to regain that warmth. 

“No!” Virgil says aloud, then quickly silences himself.  _ This dish will bring us back! Patton said ‘there’s no room for sadness during this meal, close the door and welcome the happy!”  _

Slaving away, Virgil takes a breather. “This is hard work, geez. It would be nice to have some animal helpers around here.” He grins, looks around, and is disappointed to find that he remains alone as always, grin now replaced by a frail frown. 

When completed, the large dish is set carefully in the middle of the table. A centrepiece soon to be shared. 

Thus, the others arrive. Thus, the meal commences. 

They don’t comment, don’t reminisce about the dish. They sit down, look around, then get angry by the lack of separate plates. 

“This is disgusting.” Roman complains.

“I can barely believe even someone of  _ your _ stature is incapable of completing a task as simple as cooking.” Logan’s next.

Patton’s comment hurts the most, “Are you trying to poison us? What even is this slop?” Virgil thought at least Patton would show appreciation. 

“This is the together meal…” Virgil tries to smile, prompting them to acknowledge its history.  _ Their _ history. 

No lanterns are lit that night.

A plate is thrown, a new gash added to Virgil’s portfolio.

He tries to avoid spilling blood, he doesn't want to clean it up.

.

**Rule 7 : Don’t Distract - Don’t Bother**

This rule begins on the dawn of Family Night. Virgil can’t help but shake in excitement. Nothing like this has happened for weeks! A full night of bonding, laughing and everything good in this world. 

Virgil has to slap his present self for how his past self took all these nights for granted.

Sailing high in the clouds, Virgil near bursts with anticipation when entering downstairs. His sail flutters slightly, falling, when greeted by a movie night already in progress.  _ They started without me? _

Nervously Virgil asks, “Hey guys… what’s the plan tonight?”

An awkward silence makes Virgil lower his stare, playing with his sleeve ends, calming himself with the feeling of fabric rubbing between his fingers.

“Well,” Patton’s voice sounds remorseful, but his tone suggests otherwise. “we were hoping it could just be the three of us tonight. I think we just need a break from you, since everything has been so stressful lately… and, well, you  _ are _ stress.” 

“Oh.” Virgil looks at Roman, then at Logan, neither show any signs of disagreement. “Ok… Ok. That… That makes sense.” He turns on his heels, slowly ascending the steps, waiting for someone to speak out, change their mind, calling him back to join them. 

Virgil must have missed the call. 

It’s easier to tell himself that. 

.

No one has talked to Virgil in days. He won’t complain, no. This is nothing like the cold room. Still, it’s very lonely. Virgil loves being alone, he really does, but he hates being lonely so, _so_ _much_ more.

Distractions only work for a short amount of time. 

Virgil hasn’t been able to use his phone, he keeps messing up, so they have to take it away to make him focus better. So that’s one activity down. There isn’t much else. After finishing all his chores with hours left until the next meal, all that’s left is empty space. 

Distantly, the reminder of a final chore flows into his core thoughts.  _ That’s it! _ Virgil’s head spins, jumping up so suddenly, now able to listen as the blood runs throughout his brain.  _ Fancy that. _

“Perform other tasks requested!” A poetic phrase he can never forget, sings to him on high. Now, Virgil just needs for someone to ask him. The slight obstacle being, there isn’t another soul around. That can be easily fixed. Virgil simply has to go somewhere else.

_ Logan’s always telling me what to do, maybe he needs something right now. I’d better help.  _

Walking (not sinking, he’s not allowed to enter without permission) to Logan’s room

He feels the sharp corner of the block knocking against his temple, before he even notices it being thrown. Fight-and-flight must be taking the day off… or the last few weeks off.  _ Should I be worried about that?  _ Virgil can’t find the energy to care.

This repeats twice more, Roman and Patton mirroring behaviours, even throwing objects to match. They all say the same thing, “Don’t distract me!” “Don’t distract me!” “Don’t distract me!” 

A new lesson learnt, three new bleeding marks will remind him should he ever forget.

.

“Can I come this time?” Virgil asks. They’ve barred him from speaking with Thomas lately. Citing Thomas as “too tired to deal with his anxiety”. So, Virgil respects his wishes and leaves him be.

They give each other an indecipherable look. In another time, Virgil knows he would have understood. This is a different time, a time that Virgil will cherish, he knows it could always be worse. He’s lucky he has Logan, Patton and Roman to guide him.

“We didn’t want to tell you this, but Thomas hates you.” Patton says it so casually, seemingly an obvious fact that stupid Virgil couldn’t figure out sooner.

Virgil’s blood turns to ice, his heart stops beating. This moment survives a lifetime. 

First, a face of pure disbelief. “No…” Virgil whispers ever so quietly. Barely a peep in a storm.

“Patton is correct.”

“No…” Virgil’s disbelief morphs into pure horror.

“Don't be delusional now. You can’t see him, he hates your guts, he hates what you've done to him. If he hated you before, that barely holds a flame to his current inferno. Virgil, you  **_failed_ ** him. You didn't  **_protect_ ** him. You  **_hurt_ ** him.” It would be less painful if Roman stabbed him,  _ Virgil knows this for sure.  _ No additional physical pain arrives. The mental pain is moving in, locking the door, preparing to burn Virgil from the inside out.

Virgil can no longer speak, everything inside of him emptied out. Thomas was his last support, his last light. Every day he pushes himself forward solely to make sure Thomas is safe. 

The Lights Sides turn away, casting a large shadow in their wake, even as they sink out, the darkness never fades, it turns against him. 

Piteously, Virgil’s head shakes side-to-side, denial being wrenched away, slaughtered, then replaced by a depraved gospel. He can’t have failed Thomas! He can't hurt Thomas! But he did… 

His crushed heart only tears further apart, black blood seeping out. It cries, wails of anguish, a banshee crying, warning of death. Virgil himself vomits on his shirt, sticky and warm. He deserves far worse, for he has committed the worst sin. Failing his host. Failing everything he stands for. 

The only living valves in his heart remain pumping uselessly, trying to save himself, yet failing, much like Virgil always has. In the mush that remains, Virgil allows maggots to make a feast. His rotten, ugly, horrid heart festers in its grave.

Does Virgil deserve to keep trying? To pick a broken crown from rubble, moving forwards, crawling in despair to build, to solidify even a single stone of what he once had?

Virgil doesn’t bother asking.

.

**Rule 8 : Never Be Disrespectful**

Virgil clings onto a piece of driftwood, praying to daylight. He hadn’t seen any solid land in what feels like years. Nothing stable, only drifting on dangerous waters, who knows if the waves will storm, the ship will sink, or if he may drown in the depths beneath. 

It’s an endless course, all unpredictable, living in a state of constant fear.

Virgil entertains himself in strange ways nowadays; he’s lost the privilege to his room and subsequently his phone. Constantly gumming up, the others have to revoke these favours in order to help Virgil to better concentrate. Therefore, he must search for entertainment in other forms.

Finishing with all his chores, knowing not to bother anyone, Virgil glances around the room. Not much has changed from the last two seconds he was away, but the light outside is dim, sun hiding behind the clouds. Rain should be coming soon… Somewhere along his journey, the darkened skies have lost Virgil’s favour. The mysterious air among them, the sharp flashes of lightning, both once comforting, now terrify. Virgil needs not more of the unknown in his life. The flashes so fierce only remind of the cracks against flesh. All he wants now is stability and safety.

_ No. Everything is fine. I have everything I need. They’re helping me. They tell me I need help and no one else would want to be with me. I am grateful. _

Back to finding an occupation for his time, Virgil spots a small activity book. The book is worn and old, a light covering of dust has settled atop. Left abandoned, this should be the perfect pastime.

Time does pass… 

Too soon does his fun stop. Creak go the stairs, Logan descends, no book in hand, just staring. It’s always so strange seeing Logan with no book, even stranger to see him not wearing a tie. 

“What’s up with your tie?” Virgil asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Absolutely none of your business.” Logan shot Virgil down immediately. “...What is that?” The question phrases more as an accusation than a question. 

Virgil glances down at his work, “Oh, this? Nothing really, I was just passing time.”

“Are you aware that said “ _ work _ ” is a possession of mine?” 

“Yeah? You’ve never used it. It’s like a hundred years old.”

“Age is not consent to sully one's property.” Logan stomps towards Virgil and the book, snatching it aggressively. “You show such disrespect! Disrespect to  _ me _ and disrespect to  _ my  _ belongings!” He grabs Virgil by the shoulders, violently shaking him back and forth. “Never, and I mean  _ never,  _ touch mine or anyone’s possessions! As far as you are concerned, every item in this room is  _ ours!  _ You are merely an infection we so graciously allow to stay! Don’t overstep your bounds or, like an infection, you will be forcefully removed!”

The anger burns in Logan’s eyes. At some point amid the tirade, Roman and Patton had made an appearance. As Logan explains the entirety of the events transpired, Virgil shrinks further and further away, expressions of anger can only mean one thing. 

.

The day has been tense thus far, more tense than normal days, Virgil is greatly aware of his fault all these situations. 

Currently, the Light Sides are gathered in silence around the living room table, no words are exchanged, but signs of barely contained anger surfaces. Glares, low growls and bared teeth are shared. At this point, whatever they may be working on is mostly ignored. 

This is the calm before the storm, Virgil knows he will be at the center soon. In anticipation, he can't resist the urge to send brief glances at the group. 

Roman catches his gaze, the first crack of lightning strikes. “What are you looking at?!”

“N-nothing.” 

“Oh come on, you think I’m stupid?” Roman huffs, shoves the table back, (earning some angry grunts) then stands at full height. 

Before Roman can continue his outburst, Logan rises from his spot, shoves Roman, making him in turn shove Patton. Predictably, this escalates into a full on verbal brawl between the three. 

Never before seeing the others fight each other, all he finds himself able to do is to remain still and hope for the best.  _ Am I a horrible person for not wanting to stop them?  _

Eventually, it comes to a climax, the yelling soon turns to violent shoving, punches impacting flesh, the sounds of pain fill the air. It seems as though Roman and Logan make a pact, turning their attention solely to Patton.  _ Yes, I am _

Virgil cannot stay silent any longer. "Please! Stop it! All of you!"

The desired outcome occurs, of course not without a twist. As it is said,  _ what goes up, must come down _ . As such, the attention descends upon Virgil.

_ SLAP!  _

Virgil’s head whips to the side, holding his cheek, tears pool in his eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall. One would think Patton would show appreciation. Sadly, that is not the case.

“First of all,” Patton says, “don’t you  _ DARE  _ raise your voice at us!  _ EVER _ !”

Logan then speaks, “Would you rather take his place?” Virgil froze. “If not, I suppose we will have to continue with Patton.”

Despite every instinct hollering for him to back down, Virgil agrees. This won’t be the last time he takes their frustrations upon himself. 

Virgil is unaware of the first bump Roman and Patton share.

.

The later days are passed, Virgil slowly learning how to avoid disrespecting others. It’s easy to comprehend when he’s done wrong; it’s easy to remember what he’s done wrong, when each wound, bruise, mark carries the memory of his misdeeds. 

_ Call them Sir.  _

“You disobeyed me.”

“Roman, please, I had to!”

“You lost your right to call me as such.”

“Yes Sir.”

.

_ Don’t Match Eyes. _

“You are mere dirt, rendering the mind filthy with your existence. Keep your eyes trained to the ground, a reminder of where you belong.”

“Yes Sir.”

.

_ Obey any Order.  _

“If you ever cared about us, you would do as we say.”

“Yes Sir.”

.

_ Questions are Commands. _

“Can you bring these boxes to my room?”

Th-th-they’re too heavy Sir.”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

“Yes Sir.”

.

_ Only Speak when Given Permission. _

Every time he tries to speak out of turn, either he’s gagged, beat or ignored completely. 

“You will sleep on the floor tonight.”

He opens his mouth, thinks twice, closes it and nods

.

Slowly, Virgil avoids all those bad habits. The others praise him. Virgil can’t help but smile. Things are looking up.

.

**Rule 9 : Rations**

There’s a lock on the fridge. There’s locks on the cupboards. Virgil’s stomach reminds him why he’s here. There’s an empty ache which fills him, persistent in its efforts to be heard. 

_ This is new… new is never good. _

Virgil stares, hoping to melt the offending metal with his fierce glare.  _ Surprisingly,  _ it seems to be ineffective. The heaviness of his eyelids contrast, racing against his shock. The shock pulls ahead for now. 

Deciding to search for an explanation, Virgil pries his attention from his target. “Logan?” 

Towards the couch Virgil spies the side scribbling in his journal.

“Ah. Virgil, perfect timing, I was preparing to come and speak with you.” His gaze stays fixed on his work. “We have a new rule.”

A grim acceptance already dawns upon Virgil.

“We’ve noticed how you have been consuming increased amounts over these past days.” Logan leaves no time for Virgil to voice his thoughts… Not like he would have anyway. “You know we only want the best for you, your health matters to us deeply. Lately you’ve been looking rather… how could I phrase this nicely,” Logan taps his chin, “ _ oversized  _ lately.”

_ Am I?  _ Virgil looks down at himself, pushing his gut out from his sunken stomach, pinching the skin there until he feels it splitting. His stomach sinks in and his bones stick out.  _ Logan knows better, I need to trust him. _

_. _

_ I trust him. I trust him!  _ Virgil can’t stand this any longer. Rationally, he knows only a few minutes ago he devoured his daily rice and lettuce, but still, his stomach is always so greedy.  _ I should have saved some for later.  _ Discipline will be needed in order to spread his food out over the day, although sometimes when he does, they take it away. Backed in a corner, Virgil pushes back in the only way he knows how, pull it open by force. 

The fire in Virgil’s hollow pit is stoked to a bright blaze with every step. The distance separating Virgil and the fridge is quickly closed, despite the fact he can barely stand. Enemy vs. Enemy, the two combatants stand ground. Virgil sends all his energy, all his force, to his hand, he grabs the lock, ready to pull.

Immediately, his arm flares and constricts, jolts of lightning running into veins. A storm forms, clouds blocking any vision, tears like rain all cratering down, a localized storm bound for every atom of Virgil’s being. 

Excruciating agony.

_ itwontstopohmygodwhatishappeningthisisfirethisishellgodwhathaveIdoneitburnsitburnsitburnsitburnsITBURNSITBURNS… IT BURNS! _ There were no coherent thoughts, only a rush of feelings, pain and agony. As the lock keeps the door barred, so do the muscles clenched around the metal.

After an eternity torched by demons, Virgil collapses. Thoughts flee, no longer any concept of existence, solely the smell of burnt flesh, tremors still traveling through twitching muscles. 

Trapped in the aftershocks, Virgil barely registers somebody learning over his near-corpse. It whispers a soft phrase. “Don’t defy your gates, they’re built for a reason.” 

Lessons are best learnt with affliction.

.

Unfortunately, food is required to survive, even those who cannot die become weakened by famine. 

It’s Virgil’s turn to cook today, just like it was yesterday, and every other day before then. There’s a game to be played here, Virgil calls it, “Keep Upright or Get Hurt” or KUGH for short. Coincidentally, that’s the exact sound Virgil makes when being punched! Funny how life works.

Soon, the kitchen is filled with the thick aroma of steak and potatoes. The smell is simple divine, it’s mouth watering, savoury and most importantly  _ not _ stale rice, soggy lettuce, burnt bread or pig-slop. Compared to what he’s been eating, this before him, is more valuable than gold. 

Like Cesar in his palace, Virgil is betrayed. Stomach turning against him, murmuring of treasures before him. The privilege of food has already been taken, no longer on this day, allowed to taste even the smallest of scraps. Virgil’s will is crumbling, he begins to tremble.  _ Everything has a reason. They help me, it’s better to let them manage this. I’m too negligent and careless to make my own decisions. This is for the better. I feel fine!  _ His stomach roars in discord.

In his distress, Virgil grabs some food, filthy ailing hands shoving and scooping whatever he has in reach. Stomach crying out, singing songs of joy, finally filled with what it craves the most.  _ Food.  _ He grabs, he stuffs, he thefts, he cries.

Suddenly, without warning, two strong hands grab him from behind, Virgil’s world spins, jostled, now facing his oncoming demise. With Logan and Patton each taking an arm, Roman approaches, scowling, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Trying to speak, Virgil finds himself spitting mashed food, it falls to the floor. He feels disgusting.

The next thing he feels, is a sharp punch to his gut, making him gag, before his stomach is emptied, voided once more. 

.

Virgil wakes early, ready to face the new day! And so he rises, hands scraped raw, rag shoved down his throat and mouth gagged shut, Virgil begins preparations of breakfast.

.

**Rule 10 : Always Under Control**

_ “Obeying from love is better than to obey from fear.” ~Rashi _

The twirling of his head seems like a strange tradition, one set in stone. A mix of fear, confusion, despair, they all attack him relentlessly. Hope of normality fades, the bright pulse it once was, turns dull. 

It’s been more than difficult. Time continues to pass along, yet Thomas’s mental health keeps declining. As always, Virgil’s been at fault. Despite how hard they try to ~~control~~ help him, he keeps failing.

Already adjusted to remaining mute, Virgil says nothing, sitting on the ground, as the others talk above him. About him.

Patton threads his hand through his hair, a rough sigh beginning his sentence. “If he doesn’t start obeying, we won't have a choice but to send him somewhere else.”

“We could always keep him in isolation.” Roman shrugs.

The biting ice still lingers through Virgil’s fingers, the numbness remains even days after his last experience. Every occasion where that freezer captures him becomes worse than the last. Nothing compares to such deep loneliness, the possibility of being forgotten, the claustrophobia. All the more, darkness, which once acted as Virgil’s safety, now emits nightmares of silent horrors. Out of the endless list of punishments Virgil lives through, “the box” is the most feared. 

Without a thought involved, Virgil throws himself, landing submissively, head on the floor, following thusly pleads for mercy. “No! No! Anything else please!” Virgil sobs, the carpet watered by tears.

“We will be obligated to monitor you all the more strictly. It appears as though you cannot be helped with our current methods.” Logan stated.

Whiplash hits Virgil while nodding at breakneck pace. 

“Foremost, you are obligated to accept the consequences concerning talking out of turn.”

And so, Virgil welcomes it.

.

A small list of freedom, a large list of chains. 

If two wrongs don’t make a right, maybe a thousand will. So far, that philosophy is not holding up. Perhaps a thousand more will do the trick. Either way, Virgil has no power over such an experiment. 

Truth be told, Virgil has no control. Not over his words, definitely not over his wants. In addition, his own needs are now controlled by foreign hands. There's not a possession he may own. Afterall, he himself is a possession. Nothing more than an object to be manipulated by his controllers. 

.

_ Why hit the sack when it can hit you back?  _

Restricting Virgil’s eating is expected, just as certain as the ground beneath his feet. Whereas handling sleep was, for all time, his proper choice. 

Now, no more does he have such choice. 

“Days are not for rest. Late to bed and early to rise, keeps a man eaten by flies.”

Patton’s idiom is muddled, Virgil dares not to correct him. Accompanied by these words, Virgil is dragged, pushed on the ground, next made to take in his new bed. By definition bars and metal are not considered a bed. This cage is a cell for resting. 

Virgil stares in shock, the holes between the shining bars will barely fit a finger, he won’t be able to stretch. The bottom remains plain, unbedded, with not a blanket or rag for shelter. Too cramped, too cold, too lonely. Now is time to experience it all.

The night is bleak, sleep is a dream. Dreams are never reality. Virgil curls into himself, conserving any heat he can. Patton forgot to close the windows.  _ Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. _

In the dark of night, Virgil is accompanied by his thoughts. What’s worse? Being trapped in a small space, forced to look at freedom, so close but impossible to obtain. Or the fact that soon, he will be forced to leave. 

Virgil cries at the thought of both. 

.

_ It never hurts to ask. _

Clearly whomever claimed this quote was a fool. For many, Virgil included, this phrase is a near death sentence. Asking brings pain, silence bleeds gold. 

Back when Virgil was a child, energy surrounded him, impossible to sit still, he was clouded in electric nervousness. There was always something to fear, despite his fear he never remained frozen. Virgil can’t remember a time where he stood still. Any time there was danger, any time Thomas froze on-spot, Virgil was there, screaming to run away. 

Nowadays, Virgil rarely moves. When cleaning and cooking he feels sluggish, his feet dragging him around, he is forever trapped in a foggy haze. Fortunately, or unfortunately, most times he is forced to be stock-still. 

Movement is restricted. Virgil is no longer an equal. He is a dog, a possession made to be controlled. Freedom is no longer a word. They nearly accompanied him everywhere, if no one was, Virgil is expected to kneel on the spot. No shuffling, no movement. Head down, arms on his thighs. Another kind of torment is discovered

At present, Virgil is found is such a position, kneeling, stiff, unmoved. Virgil sits at Roman feet, awaiting acknowledgement. For twenty minutes Virgil sits in this spot.

“You may speak, Anxiety.” Even Virgil’s name is taken from him, Anxiety is his name once more. Right now, he remains relieved that Roman calls him as such. Virgil knows all too well if he’s called Virgil, he will be getting more than a tongue-lashing.

Permitted to speak, Virgil wastes no time. “Can I please take a bath, Sir?” Virgil wants to explain, wants to share how his skin is itching and peeling. How he can’t differentiate his hair from the blood, sweat, grime and who knows what else lives there. He knows better to complain. It’s his brain’s fault that he just can’t stop thinking about how every time anything touches his body, lungs collapse over the aching, stabbing pain experience. A hot bath would be heaven.

“Alright,” Roman snaps his fingers, summoning Patton and Logan, “Let’s get on with it.”

Right… Virgil’s not allowed to do anything for himself, including his cleanliness. 

Even when granted permission, his requests are twisted horribly. 

When  _ settled _ in the bath, Virgil’s blood begins to boil… so does his face… and skin, and chest, and legs and literally every single inch of him. Welcome to Hell. The water surrounding him screams and boils, cooking Virgil from the inside out. 

No control over his struggling, all three hold him down, sometimes underwater, lungs burning from more than the scalding waters. Virgil knows he’s screaming, he knows he’s pleading, begging, crying out for mercy. He also knows there’s a coming consequence as he continues screaming sans approval. 

Hysterically, Virgil obsesses over the thought _ , “I won't have to worry about peeling skin! Because soon I won’t have any!”  _ He continues to scream until he is given the blessed gift of unconsciousness. 

.

Years ago, if someone asked Virgil to describe Roman in five words, “a royal pain in the ass”, is what he would have gone with. At this stage, Virgil will say, (though  **_never_ ** aloud) “a royal pain in the everywhere”. Not simply for reason of annoyance, but for the way Roman ~~abuses~~ corrects him.

Heartless hand hook his head

Endless explosive endeavours ensure eye’s ecchymosis

Leg lurches, lashing lesioned lungs

Palms push painfully, plunging person plat 

Meagre muscles murdered, moreover maimed 

Elbow ensures enemy’s enfeeble end 

Just minutes pass, yet Virgil’s whole body shakes, his form racked with agony. He lies on his back, never a safe position to hold, but he couldn't find the strength to flip over. 

Taking in the view around himself was somewhat difficult; his blood trickling onto his one eye, now slowly drying. With his swollen other eye, he could make out Roman withdrawing towards the stairs. At that point, he looks down to his body, assessing the damage. Virgil never realized that a human body could contort into such a position.  _ The more you know.  _

Virgil hears laughing. It’s comforting in an acidic way, he loves listening to the joyous laughs, yet Virgil knows that he is the probable cause of said laughter. 

There’s a daze enveloping Virgil’s mind. Barely aware of any occurring movement surrounding him, he drifts, letting his mind spill, leaking away. 

An interruption comes in the form of a shoe shoving into his side, causing Virgil turn, facing the offending character.

Staring down from a high so high, Patton seems to express almost a look of pity. “Wouldn't it be nice to just give in?” Patton whispers. Virgil silently praying thanks for him not setting off a migraine, “Let us take control, you won't have to think anymore, just do what we say, no worries.” The beating has ended, a proposal is set.

Virgil bleeds, hunched over, barely conscious enough to comprehend what is said. Yet still, he nods.

“You understand we’re the only ones who will ever love you, right?”

Virgil nods again. Patton gives him a smile, nothing like it was before, still, Virgil feels warm.

Later, Virgil will have to reset some bones. Later he will try to patch himself up, hopefully stopping the bleeding. He will make his family dinner, clean up, then collapse. For now, Virgil will lie in this floor. He will lie there and think. He will lie there, think and remember; remember when, oh so long ago, Patton would sing him a lullaby whenever sleep became evasive. 

_ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine _

_ You make me happy when skies are grey _

_ You never know, dear, how much I love you _

_ Please don't take my sunshine away _

Virgil hugs himself tighter.  _ He loves me, he loves me, he loves… _

Slowly, sleep claims him, like all the others have.

.

.

.

Virgil still clings, hoping more than anything for this life to turn around, that they will fade away from anger, to begin loving once more. 

The cravings become heavy weights, Virgil can’t let go, the strange comfort of daydreams both wound and heal. 

Virgil dreams of Roman sweeping him off his feet, telling him fantastic tales, adventures to the imagination galore. Even their petty spats are missed dearly. The strength Roman gives, helps Virgil to never give up.

Virgil dreams of Logan keeping him grounded in reality, talking about stars, sitting in a comfortable silence. The Side who understands him best. The peace Logan gives, helps Virgil stay sane.

Virgil dreams of Patton hugging him, reminding him he’s loved, bringing him from his room to hang out, full of laughter and fun. The joy Patton brings, helps Virgil to be optimistic. 

Roman, Logan and Patton keep him alive. Virgil will live another day.

.

Those rules take all humanity, freedom, independence that Virgil once owned, ensnares it into a vice, tightening harder and harder, just waiting for him to break. When he’s broken Virgil finds the vice still constricting, finding new space, once thought impossible, to crush, leaving specks in the rubble.

Everything Virgil once was, broken by the punishings brought upon him. These punishments were never listed as the rules were. Never carefully drilled into Virgil’s head, able to be repeated by memory. These were imperceivable, unpredictable. Sometimes, late at night when he shivers in his cage, Virgil thinks the other sides like it that way.

.

There are many types of punishments and each side has favourites, Virgil notes. 

Roman is the most physical, slaps and shoves escalate into punches and kicks. Roman gets a little grumpy in the mornings, if Virgil makes too much noise, it’s only fair that Roman has to throw or hit Virgil with whatever is in his hands. Lunch seems to go smoother, mostly just shoves into walls, kicks to the ground or the occasional beatings if Virgil isn’t listening, doing what he should. The afternoons aren’t as calm, this is when Roman has his most creative thoughts, his dark creative thought. In a horrifically twisted way, Virgil feels awe with every new idea that is spurred. Evenings are always a surprise. Virgil could either wait in a cold sweat, anticipating something, yet for nothing to occur, or he could hear Roman coming from miles away, yelling profanities followed by sounds of breaking and crashing, soon to be received by Virgil. In the nights, the crack of a whip and skin thumping against skin becomes lullabies as Virgil screams himself to sleep. 

It’s Virgil’s own fault, he never listens.

.

Logan is different, never being much of a hands-on type of guy, he uses his words to beat Virgil down. Virgil isn’t sure at first, but Logan quickly teaches him that he’s, worthless, indolent, inconsiderate, obstinate, pessimistic and much more. Sometimes Virgil doesn’t know what the words mean, not for long, Logan loves explaining each one. He’s a very good teacher. Logan also gets angrier far quicker than anyone else. Every wrong move or slip-up is quickly corrected. Logan makes the rules and punishments align perfectly. If Virgil speak out-of turn, Logan teaches him not to, by gagging him. If Virgil moves too much, Logan teaches him to be still by roping his arms and legs together. Logan is very straightforward. Virgil disobeys and Logan teaches. 

It’s Virgil’s own fault, he never learns.

.

Patton rarely hits. Well, that would be lying, Virgil’s not allowed to lie. Patton doesn’t hit as much as the others. No, Patton prefers more deceitful and odd tactics. For example, Patton will tell Virgil nice things, let him know that he’s doing such a good job. Then, he laughs. Patton will laugh and laugh while belittling all Virgil’s hopes, all he was proud of. That pride shattered beneath Patton’s shoes. Patton also likes using his shoes, stomping, kicking, squishing, silly things like that. Patton is silly. Virgil tries to follow the strange phrases Patton used to love saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Virgil finds out that Patton  _ really  _ likes using rocks and rods.

It's Virgil’s own fault, he never does anything right.

.

Sometimes punishments and rules overlap each other, confusing, always slipping up when he did wrong and now slipping up if he does something right. These are traps Virgil falls into again and again. These are the rules, the punishments, which pop-up out of nowhere, a figurative jack-in-a-box, never knowing when to expect its jump, nonetheless knowing it is inevitable. 

“What do you say?” Logan asks, patting Virgil roughly on the cheeks. The rations for today are set down at the floor where Virgil sits, knees stuck to the ground.

He’s not allowed to eat with his hands. That privilege was taken when Virgil was eating his food and spilled it all over himself.  _ Roman didn’t mean to push him, Virgil’s just too clumsy. _

A meek voice replies, “Thank you, sir.”

The previous pats turn violent, Logan strikes Virgil down. “What have I said about not speaking?!” 

“But… but you said t-” A second slap shut Virgil’s mouth.

“Are you attempting to correct me on my own words?” Logan grimaces, removes Virgil’s privilege of food, then continues, “You are not to speak unless given permission.” 

Virgil is then released into Roman’s care.

.

Next morning arises, the routine repeats. 

“What do you say?” Logan sets down his ration.

This time Virgil knows he’s not to speak. Or, he thought he did.

A twin slap overlaps yesterday’s. The slight shock of pain is overcome by confusion. What did Virgil do wrong?

“You are such an ungrateful, spoiled, thankless, animal!” Logan accentuates every word with a swift kick, hitting its mark, adding to the black and blue canvas that is Virgil.

.

Virgil would be unkind to only ponder the negatives of life. His brothers are not heartless monsters, they only try to help. He shouldn’t focus on all these bad times. Compared to others, his life is mere child’s play.

_ I love them and they love me, even if they haven’t said it for a while, I know it’s an understood thing. _

Sometimes they will be nice, kind words and apologies that make Virgil’s heart ache. They promise that this is the last time, it will never happen again. Still so naive, Virgil believes them every time. Foolish child so desperate for things to be back the way they were.

_ Maybe this time will be different!  _ The Logical Side was kind enough to let him out of the handcuffs attached in his room. Once regaining feeling in his limbs, Virgil is told to meet at the table. 

When finally able to move, according to his new routine, Virgil listens against the wall above the stairs, gauging the mood he is entering. He listens.

“Exactly. That’s why we need to get control!” Finally, Roman. “I mean, the only other option is murder.” Laughter follows close after.

“Terribly inconvenient that we as sides cannot die.” Logan almost sounds defensive. “Nevertheless, regeneration is always quite the painful process.” Virgil can hear the grin.

_ Are they talking about me?  _ He halts shakily.  _ No, they can’t be. We’ve been getting along… sometimes… they said we’re family. _

It’s a nerve-wrecking process, hearing your friends discuss killing someone then having to walk past them all, sitting in the corner seat.

“Virgil.” Patton didn’t so much as greet him, his tone suggested it was more of an affirmative, acknowledging his existence as fact. “We have a proposal for you.”

_ That’s not good. _ Patton’s voice so formal, none of his warmth he possesses. It’s been so long since he last felt warm.  _ Is there a new rule? I don’t think I can do more, I’m so tired lately. I know I did this to myself, but it doesn't hurt any less.  _ Virgil keeps his head down, no eye-contact, and nods, the only way he is allowed to acknowledge attention. What is said next, perks him to full attention.

Roman pipes up, “Yes, we feel that you deserve a reward. Acting like such a good boy.” 

Even with such a condescending phrase, Virgil can’t help sitting up straighter and puffing out his chest. 

“Tonight,” Logan takes charge, “We are all having a movie night. You shall be permitted to join us.” 

Virgil is aloud to join them! He was so good this week! They let him have a reward!  _ Happy! Happy! Happy! _

Practically floating over to the couch, Virgil plops down dead center of the couch, the optimal spot for the most attention.

The others follow suit, they gather on the couch, Roman sitting across two seats resting his feet across Patton’s lap, Patton slouching to the right of Virgil, Logan taking residence on the left side. Virgil is surrounded, trapped… he couldn’t be happier. 

It’s only then that Virgil can relax. Sure, most of his body aches, pounds, stings, and sure, he may feel dizzy from lack of food and sleep, but for now he will take it all for the sole chance of melting into the comfort of their warmth. Odd, they don’t feel very warm around him. At least he can take-in the familiar smell and feel of his brothers. Only, it feels anything from familiar. Cold, bitter, stale are a few select words able to describe this family's ambience.

If someone asks what they were watching, Virgil would not be able to answer. They might as well be watching static as the night drags on, there’s no focus, no talking, not even the regular banter and quips. Family night this was not.

A last-ditch effort to save these precious hours, Virgil begins scooting a small degree towards Patton.  _ He’s the least likely to push me away. Patton always loves cuddling.  _ With the small pep-talk and the overwhelming need for touch, Virgil presses his small form into Patton’s larger one. All goes well… for the first half-second.

It seems as though a taut string has snapped, Patton yanks both wrists, easily gripping them between a single hand. Acting as though a parasite attached itself to his body, he rips the pest from his side. 

Virgil feels his wrist turn and pop, thrown to the ground, landing on hands and knees like a dog. 

“Don’t touch me! You’re disgusting! You haven't bathed for days! Stay on the ground where you belong!” Patton kicks the boy down further, now watching as Virgil rolls onto his back clutching his newly throbbing side. “Ugh, I think I need a bath. Ew.” Patton excuses himself to his room, disappearing. 

After the pain fades to a dull throb, the time comes for Virgil to meet his fate. When looking up, Virgil’s eyes focus upon the two who never left. Displeased, disgusted and disapproving, Virgil is well aware he’s failed once more.

“You just had to ruin this didn’t you. It feels as though you  _ like _ messing up. You  _ like  _ being punished. Stop doing this to yourself.” Roman knows these things. Roman has to be right, it’s Virgil’s own issues which keep him from success.

“We give you mercy, you are rewarded and this is how you show thanks?” Logan’s tone stays neutral, no emotion, so cold and so barren. “You have hurt Patton and that is unacceptable. Proper discipline is needed. It seems as though you will never learn. Such a pity.”

Logan finishes his point by nabbing Virgil by his hair, tearing out roots as he yanks the bruised side up, tossing him to a corner, forgotten like an old useless toy. That’s all Virgil is, isn’t he? 

In the corner, a familiar cage gleams, light dancing across its bars, an escape, yet also a prison. Virgil crawls in, the only comfort found is by the safety of a lock. Not allowing anyone in, alas not allowing anyone out.

“Just stay off the furniture, ok?” It wasn’t a choice, even Virgil wasn’t stupid enough to miss that point. As history repeats itself again, Virgil is abandoned, hurt, cold and forlorn

In the dark, silence of the moonlit cage, Virgil is left to his thoughts. And oh, what a terrible stage that is.  _ Stupid Virgil! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid Virgil! Look what you’ve done!  _ His thoughts mock him all night. In return, he stays awake until morning comes, Virgil knows he doesn’t deserve the luxury of repose.

On these somber nights Virgil has plenty of time to think. He relishes in the memories of all they do for him. He turns them about, reviews them over and over until every last drop of sunshine seeps away and only a husk of that happiness remains. Sometimes Virgil forgets when they last smiled at him, gave him good touches… loved him. But Virgil knows it is going to be ok soon! Because Virgil can fix himself! Virgil can fix his family! 

He has to! 

_ …he can’t take this much longer...  _

.

.

.

_ Answer : No _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been bad lately. I'm sorry this is so late.   
> It's also very long, oops.  
> Next chapter will be shorter (still over 1000 words).  
> Please let me know your thought and feels! I love hearing from you guys!


	3. Are We?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! Vacation, family stuff and bad time has prevented my postings. I hope to update much quicker now.

Light?

.

_ Whose ghost is that? _

_ Though once they knew _

_ Now soul is slew _

_ Whose ghost is that? _

It’s a night in a graveyard, despite the silence the world still stirs. Barely the sounds, more the minds. In a cage, in the ground, a coffin carries a dying soul. Stake in heart, forbidden to rise. It pulses weakly, unsure if it should die or continue on this path of little hope.

Before the soul can truly fade, there comes a storm, one to shake the earth beneath. The coffin breaks, the soul now rises into the boy who never rests.

**_CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_ **

Three consecutive crashes sound out, jerking Virgil violently upwards. His already pounding head connects with the metal bars above him.

“Rise and shine Anxiety!” A false tone of cheer greets him. “You’d better get started on breakfast, you slept in late today.” 

The dawning realization pours over Virgil, he shoots up, pushing at the metal door. Being late is a death-sentence.

“What do you say?” Still mockingly cheery, Patton holds the only key which releases him from this prison to the next. 

“Please Sir, I want to serve you today.” Virgil whispers with a voice so delicate, yet rough from lack of use. “May I come out?”

“Good boy, using your manners.” Patton’s smile never reaches his eyes. “You may come out now.” 

Despite knowing the nickname is condescending, the lack of any warmth or kind words push him to treasure any positive reaction. Even fake and fraud cause his chest to alight for a split second. 

The next minute is spent trying to gain feeling back in his arms and legs. Being cramped too tightly every night should make stretching pleasurable, it  _ should _ feel warm as circulation floods in his limbs, like he’s coming alive after the dead of night. No, that would be too easy. Instead of such a wonderful dream, the stretches are the definition of misery. Aside from being barely able to crawl out of his cage, the movement burns acid down his nerves, cursed with stabbing needles. 

The moment where Virgil is confident he won’t high-five the ground with his face, he stumbles clumsily into the kitchen, breakfast creations in mind. 

Upon arriving, Roman greets him with open arms. Not to share a hug, but to fix a gag around Virgil’s mouth. In exchange for his obedience, he is awarded with a hard shove, driving him further to the kitchen.

Cooking feels distant, his hands are his, yet it seems a stranger pulls at his strings. If it weren't for the small alarm in the back of Virgil’s mind yelling at him that what’s happening is not normal, not healthy, this situation could be considered soothing. Despite that, Virgil lingers in the soft haze. 

A blink later, he comes to, full awareness pounds in his conscious mind. From a state of numb bliss to a verbal war-zone, such change does compare to punch in the gut, reality beating him to the ground.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?!” Roman barks, shaking Virgil until he falls to the ground, head-spinning. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” Kicks rain from above, soaking Virgil with hardened clubs.

Completely confused, Virgil lifts his head off the floor far enough to give Roman a blank stare.

“THE FOOD IS BURNT!” Roman snaps, grabbing Virgil by the wrist in a crushing hold. To the stove they head, Virgil recognizing the smell of ash and smoke, wonders how he missed such a scent.

At a pan they both stand, Roman forcing Virgil to retain eye-contact. With no hesitation, Roman presses hard, holding Virgil’s already mangled hand onto the scorching metal. Instantly the weaker side screeches and struggles. The smells of flesh melting, sounds of skin sizzling, pains of fire, all cause Virgil’s stomach to roll and cramp. Hand still stuck to pan, Virgil folds over; if there was any content in his stomach it would be long gone. Small mercies, due to starvation, Virgil is empty.

Finished dealing his sentence, Roman releases his bone-crushing grip. 

Virgil is empty.

Virgil is burnt.

Virgil falls.

.

There’s never a break, there’s never rest for the wicked. Virgil knows he is bad. He knows he shouldn’t possess even what small luxuries are given. Virgil’s existence is a disappointment, a failure. Perfection’s in the clouds, Virgil is buried six feet under.

Though rest may never be attained, chores have become his paradise, rarely bothered when working, such time is special.

Scrubbing every surface everything has blood on it is oddly cathartic. Virgil washes blood and dirt from every surface, erasing the abuse as Virgil attempts to erase the memories. Cleaning a floor is done with much more ease than throwing away the memories attached. He likes to think that it's the last time he will ever have to do this. 

Laundry is, by-far, the most relaxing of these activities. Sometimes, when no one else is present, Virgil indulges himself in sitting, watching the clothes spin. Staring into the glass brings kind memories for Virgil to soak in. A long time ago, Patton would invite Virgil to spend time together baking. Never to be admitted aloud, he found great joy in watching breads, cookies and any other yeast filled pastries rise from batter to its full potential. Virgil hopes to all hope that perhaps he may do the same.

Dusting may be the most enjoyable chore. Walking around the commons, a feathery wand gripped in hand. Letting his mind wander, imagination standing proud, Virgil has many an adventure. The wand, with every stroke, granting him wishes and bending reality to his wants. Old becomes new, says the duster, clearing away the breath of time. In his thoughts, in his imagination, Virgil dreams that with one flick of the wrist, life will resume back as it was, back when he was loved. He stops playing pretend after that. 

Washing the dishes is the cleanest he will ever get. When no one is around, Virgil finds a small amount of joy, indulging in self-care.  _ Burble.  _ Hot water is a great exfoliant.  _ Scrub.  _ Dead skin, dried blood, both melt away, dissolving down to a watery grave. Virgil ignores the hissing wounds, flesh stinging like a hand on a pan. 

What he does is enough. It’s the only cleanliness Virgil can be given. Asking for showers nowadays is never a safe option. Hell, he might as well outright say,  _ “Wowie! I sure would like to take a quick dip into this volcano! _

.

After lunch comes Virgil’s nap… Well… maybe it dubbing it as such is not fully accurate. A sane man would call it “passing out”. Virgil is undecidedly sane. 

Virgil curls on a small pile of clothes, the red from inside him slowly migrating onto cloth and cotton. In a recent boxing match (Virgil was the bag) many injuries, old and new, crawl, invading his brain, sending signals of pain. Aside from all the blood loss, Virgil was plain old exhausted. 

For a long while, the boy sits atop his bloody throne. Rest is fleeting, Virgil tries holding on to those precious moments of sleep, but as the pattern continues, it abandons him.

_ Bloody clothes are far easier to clean than a bloody floor _

So comes the late afternoon. The Commons are a ghost town, Virgil can’t sense anyone in this space. So, he exhales his fears, untenses in the slightest, ready to take time for himself. That means, sitting dead-center in the room, hands in lap, head bowed. No movement, no sounds… For a second.

“Come here, Anxiety!” Patton’s sing-song voice causes bile to rise in Virgil’s throat. Never is Patton’s cheer a sought after emotion. Maybe in a different time, maybe in a former life. Now, it is the melody of a siren. Like a sailor drawn to the temptress, Virgil is pulled forwards, unwillingly heading en route to his inevitable demise.

Emerging into Patton’s sight, Virgil realizes three oddities in quick succession. One, Patton, Roman and Logan are all standing shoulder to shoulder, a literal wall of flesh. Two, Patton’s hands are clasped behind his back. Flexing muscles indicate an object being held in said hands. Three, all of them are happy. 

Virgil would have killed to see them happy once upon a time. Over the weeks he accepts that their happiness only brings him pain. Still, he feels his own sick happiness at watching them smile and laugh. Every day, Virgil longs for when they would include him in their merry. 

He misses when Patton would start family food-fights, never escalating too far, yet being incredible thrilling nonetheless. He misses Roman’s small adventures, ones that would be as simple as a trip to his castle still allow for exciting tales, laughing at Roman’s embarrassments as he stumbled around carelessly. He misses when Logan would ramble excitedly about projects or new learnings. They always seemed to end in laughter, Logan jumbling his words or mistakengly sharing a pun. He misses them.

Back to Virgil’s current reality, he observes the new “ _ creation _ ” they are presenting. A collar is the first word that comes to mind. A collar that is more than it seems at first glance. Prongs line the insides, points sharpened, destined to sink into a neck. Teeth like vampires, grip like wolves. Virgil is certain this instrument will bring nothing less than agony.

The Others slowly approach Virgil, grinning, the Cheshire cat mimicked in their expressions. 

“We like to call it, ‘The Lead Cobra.’” A sadistic grin splits across Roman’s face. Gleefully, he approaches Virgil, along with the others, surrounding their prey.

Virgil is exhausted, starving, hurt and now terrified. Everything is cold, not only physically, all the time, for so long now, the freezing fear consumes him. The plains of ice have been walked upon for many a week. Now, with his journey, has been interrupted by the pummelling of fire. The cold felt latter-wards, now turns to a frenzied fire. 

The fact that Sides are unable to die, fills Virgil with absolute dread.

The sides approach, Roman quickly grabs at Virgil’s wrists; still incredible bruised from previous activities, Virgil cries out and struggles for freedom. 

The concept of needles sinking into flesh, a constraint choking his neck, pushes him over the edge.

“Stop that!” Roman yanks Virgil closer, “If you don’t stop, I’ll tie you like the dog you are.”

Virgil doesn’t stop.

As promised, Roman reaches into thin air, a rope is summoned, wrapping around Virgil. He is flipped around, arms forced together behind his back, hands facing outwards, bound from wrists and up his forearms. 

The binds suffocate his arms, circulation already failing. Even that is not enough to quell Virgil’s struggles. He screams from desperation and fear. “ **_PLEASE_ ** _! PLEASE GOD STOP! I CAN’T! PLEASE! I CAN’T–I CAN’T–I CAN’T–PLEASE!”  _ Any shred of dignity Virgil possess is thrown into the sky as he squirms, thrashes and begs for release.

“Patton, hurry up and gag him already!” Roman shouts.

Patton approaches, first forcing his hand over Virgil’s mouth. Somehow, this does not calm Virgil. Despite what the others want, Virgil’s struggles increase like feral cat.

The hand slips from his mouth. Fight kicks in and Virgil bites down hard. Patton’s hand gripped between Virgil’s teeth, breaking skin then slowly drawing blood. His first rebellion in many weeks shows there’s still fire in his soul. Only when Virgil hears bones cracking does he relent, releasing Patton’s hand.

Virgil is digging his own grave.

A large cloth is forced into his mouth, a long rag then wraps around his mouth and tied behind his head. 

“You retched fuc-”

Virgil’s attack does not prevent the inevitable for long. He frantically shakes his head, tears falling like a broken tap. 

With Roman holding Virgil up by his twisted arms, Patton pulling his hair thus forcing him to bare his throat, Logan opens the collar and begin pressing it around Virgil’s neck.

Then… 

**Tug** . 

_ Pop _ .

… 

Logan is well passed the point of suspicion, every action drawing him to more and more troubling conclusions. Logan cannot fully pin down the exact time in which Virgil had changed faces. No matter, all importance lies in that Virgil has adopted a new persona.

Acting similar to a robot Logan is well versed in the art of concealing emotions. Unlike Logan, Virgil could never do the same. 

The youngest side is surprisingly easy to read. Either lashing out in anger or refusing to speak, most of Virgil’s emotions flow across his own body. Twitches, trembles indicate a need to flee. Red face, deep breathes and rapid blinking shows Virgil restraining (to the best of his ability) from crying. 

Before he was officially accepted into this family, it was much more difficult to recognize such symptoms. Or maybe we did not care enough to look, Logan thought darkly.

Either way, this new attitude Virgil has adopted feels like a front. 

Logan notices whenever Virgil thinks no one is looking, glares and annoyed expressions plaster over the pleasant attitude of before. When caught, Virgil immediately switches to a light expression accompanied with a smile (not his usual grin, Logan notes).

Even talking to the anxious side feels dry. Questions are answered with precision, as if they are performing a well-memorised performance. 

Logan does not have any solid proof or even a solid conclusion to his suspicions. Because of such, he has kept his findings a secret. Unaware of the others drawing themselves theories and suspicions. 

.

Patton used to believe he understood Virgil better than anyone. He is the manifestation of emotions, leading him to sense feelings, specific emotions or the general atmosphere of his fellow sides. Previously, he never had an issue decoding most of his kiddo’s thoughts. 

But, now it seems as though Virgil blocks himself. No matter how much Patton silently pries, he can never discern or make sense of anything! Why was Virgil doing this? Are they growing so far apart he does not even feel a shadow of well… anything. 

Patton’s best-friend is cold and distant. Whenever they meet, Virgil is always smiling, he laughs, he jokes, but Patton cannot help but become suspicious. Something bad must have happened! For Virgil to ignore them, push them away! Something’s not right with Virgil!

Patton feels so guilty for thinking this way. If Virgil is happy he shouldn't try to ruin it over some silly suspicions. 

Because of such, he has kept his findings a secret. Unaware of the others drawing themselves theories and suspicions. 

.

Roman tries to be optimistic, he really does. Such positive thoughts keep his mind sharp making it far easier to conjure wild fantasies and heroic quests. Quests that, in the past, Virgil and him would frequent together. 

During their walks, fearsome dangers and other tasks, Virgil would consistently mutter how,  _ “I’m only doing this because if I wasn’t here you’d be long dead.”  _ Roman would never address how they both knew Sides cannot die. Virgil loved his adventures.

But this new Virgil  _ No. Not new, he’s still just Virgil.  _ No longer accompanies Roman… anywhere. He used to at least indulge in Roman’s fantasies, his plays, his creations

Now Virgil will only roll his eyes and walk away. 

Sometimes, late at night, Roman will find himself sleepless. He will toss and turn, mind wandering to darker thoughts.  _ Is that truly Virgil? Has he turned to his old ways? … Maybe that isn’t even Virgil…  _ he blames his room for imagining such thoughts.

Because of such, he has kept his findings a secret. Unaware of the others drawing themselves theories and suspicions. 

… 

Into the late night, Patton, Roman, Logan and Thomas work, making schedules, bouncing around ideas, all in all remaining busy for many hours. Thomas’s anxiety seems under control, making these tasks easily handled.

A calm brain coupled by the late hour causes productivity to slowly die. Like Cinderella, the second the clock hits twelve, Thomas begins retreating from the scene, pulling himself up the stairs towards his haven. Unlike Cinderella, he leaves not for fear of turning to rags, but the fact he may be falling into a dark fairy’s curse, wandering to his bed to slumber for a century.

“Hey! Your shoe fell off!” Roman calls up to Thomas, silence the only answer he receives. “Unimportant,” Roman continues, “should we head off to dreamland as well?”

“Though proper REM cycles are necessary, I accept a few more minutes will not cause harm.” Logan remains steadfast in his work. "What's more, our work is, by all accounts, coming up short on a specific angle. Asking another’s assessment may be mandatory." 

“Yay! We can summon Vir-”

Before the name could be uttered, Logan pops his hand over Patton’s mouth. Reeling back, Patton stares in shock, surprised by Logan’s harsh behaviour.

Roman, like the knight he is, jumps to defend Patton. “Such fowl actions! I shall not allow this de'd to wend unpunished!”

Intentionally ignoring the fuming Prince, Logan turns to address Patton.

“My apologies, Patton. The force of my actions were miscalculated. I wish to test a quick theory regarding a slight suspicion of said side.”

“You see it too.” Patton stares down to the floor, contemplating. 

“What? Who sees what? What is this  _ “it”  _ you speak of?” Roman asks.

“One of us is failing to act in accordance with their personality.” Logan replies.

“Ah! You are talking about the strange behaviour ailing V-” 

This time it’s Patton’s turn to clasp his palm, albeit gentler than Logan, on Roman’s mouth.

Roman’s offense is muffled by Patton’s hand “Don’t say his name. He might hear us.”

Soon as his mouth is freed, Roman spiels, “Well? What shall we do about “ _ he who cannot be named _ ? And  _ why _ are you so concerned about  _ him  _ hearing his own name?”

“I want to summon  _ him _ without calling him.” Logan explains, “Previously,  _ he  _ would appear the moment his name was uttered. It would be quickest to summon altogether, less of a chance to prepare, more of a chance he cannot resist the call.” Logan turns, his vision landing on Virgil’s usual spot, “This plan involves the element of surprise.  _ He  _ will not be able to resist a summoning if  _ he  _ has no previous expectations of such”

Plan. Set. Match.

In a small three-point circle the group piles hand onto hand. Energy pulses, Patton, Roman and Logan all focusing on summoning their youngest. 

Then… 

**Tug** . 

_ Pop _ .

.

.

.

Answer: Maybe

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Concerns? Gimme.


	4. Is He?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's your favourite disappointment! I have no excuses, but the fact that I can't find any inspiration! I'm never discontinuing this story don't worry. Here's the chapter... bleh.

_ Okay? _

_. _

_. _

_. _

Surprised is a word. Surprised can be used to describe many different things, but surprised is not the right word for this situation. Shocked is another word. It can be used similar to surprised, but shocked still is not the word for this situation. Horrified? It is a better word. A more deathly shock it is. Horrified is a better word, but still, no words can fully describe the scene witnessed.

There, before Patton, Logan and Roman, stands, well… Patton, Logan and Roman.

Strange as it may be, seeing themselves is not the horrifying part. Instead, watching Virgil in the middle of the group sucks their breath away, turning blood to ice.

A marionette is a comparable look when observing Virgil. His body tense yet hanging limp, draw taught with terror. That terror is as plain as the blood dripping down Virgil’s face. Eyes wide, breath shallow, face pinched into a painful shock. 

Roman is first to react, ice in veins instantly turning to fire when hearing a small wail force its way from Virgil’s lungs into the tense air. Seeing brutish hands mangling around Virgil’s body send his sight to red, brain craving to rip those imposters’ filthy hands from their sockets, then off the crying side.

Patton’s instincts kick in milliseconds after Roman’s, the scene of his Kiddo being hung by his hands and arms tied behind his back, gag fixated around his mouth, and a metallic collar forcefully piercing Virgil’s neck, drawing trickles of blood, is a picture now permanently carved into his mind. 

Being the brain, Logan should be the first to grasp the situation, yet his brain seemingly lags behind, swirling and loading. Observation inserts into the equation first. Virgil, their Virgil, is constrained– _ he needs an out or he will experience an attack– _ he is bleeding– _ an extremely concerning amount– _ he is choking– _ what is that monstrosity around his neck? _ Finally, Logan sees Virgil is crying, crying for fear, crying from pain– _ unforgivable.  _

Strange it is, looking into your own eyes, hating your mirrored-self with such ferocity that murder (suicide?) is within the realm of prospect. 

Roman grasps Logan’s arm. Logan pulls Logan’s shirt. Roman snatches Patton’s hair. Patton kicks Roman. Logan pushes Patton. Patton snags Roman… They grab themselves and sink out, carrying a shell-shocked Virgil along for the ride.

They all rise, the Commons a far clearer place for confrontations. Typically the light sides are unable to turn to violence, but rage causes far more than a few scratches. Hands gripping a sobbing Virgil are swiftly untangled, the captive falls, crumpling like paper thrown to the ground. 

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM” Roman shouts while delivering a hard punch to his twin face. 

Him, the other Roman, returns the swing, fails, then is promptly spun around, being kicked away from the fight.

In the skirmish, Patton™ ducks around the angry sides, gripping Virgil quietly shuffling them both towards away from the chaos. “I got you Honey, I got you.” He whispers

Looking up, all Virgil can see is his worst fears x2. Not quite in his right mind, whether due to blood loss, head trauma or other, all Virgil can comprehend is,  _ Too many! Bad! Get away! No-no-no!  _

The other three of the seven step back, sweat scattered across their skin. 

The three share mistrusting glances, ready to attack if given false actions. Fortunately, they find truth, barely concealed fear, in each-other’s eyes, knowing for certain they are not fakes. The real Roman, Patton and Logan fall back, standing tall above the small side. 

Virgil’s position among the group is seen through vastly different perspectives. 

About himself, Virgil sees a prison, no escaping the chain of bodies. His place lies firm, a submissive prisoner to their whim.

Among the other light sides, protected is the word so chosen. Roman stands up front, tense and unyielding, ready to attack at a moment’s notice. Patton stands next to Virgil, at his side. Body a centurion, Patton will guard Virgil to death and beyond. Logan positions himself somewhat behind Virgil’s left side, closing a weak spot in the formation. 

Thus, there is a knight’s sword, a guardian’s shield and the eyes of a watchman.

The two opposing sides face-off, both strung tight, ready to snap. “This was how I thought it would go. We love that you’re here.” Patton breaks the silence.

“Deceit.” Patton™ growls.

“I am not.” Knockoff Patton admits.

“Then I conclude those two are Remus and Malice.” Logan™ points to the offending Roman and Logan respectively. They, now exposed, share small smiles.

To everyone’s surprise, they willingly shift to their true forms. Another surprise, the three dark side’s faces fall into concerned expressions, they look down to Virgil while approaching slowly. 

“Stay away from him!” Patton warns.

Waving a metaphorical white flag, the dark sides hold their hands up in surrender.

“What do you want from us?!” Roman asks.

Deceit replies, “We don’t want anything from  _ you. _ ”

Logan growls, an animalistic sound, “What did you do to Virgil?!”

“What did  _ we _ do?” Deceit looks offended, “No my dear, the question is what did  _ you _ ?”

Before beginning to speak their protests, Deceit turns away from the affronted traits, directing all attention to the fallen side. 

“Virgil…” Deceit speaks in such a soft tone, Virgil hasn’t heard anything like that in oh so long, his heart immediately melts. “You need to come back to us, we can protect you.” 

“Liar!” To whom that voice belongs no longer matters to Virgil

“Virgil, look at me. This is something I would never lie about.” 

“Stop talking!” Another warning.

“Please, let us help you.”

“Shut up!” It’s then that Roman draws his sword, facing the blade towards his opponents.

Malice says in a voice just short of yelling (the softest voice anyone has ever heard from him). “We have to go now, but remember there’s always going to be a home waiting for you here, with us.”

Like sand in an hourglass, Deceit, Remus and Malice flee, sinking down. They are gone.

It is fixed. The bad guys are gone. The good guys win. Easy, happy, perfect ending. 

Alas, only a naive fool, a privileged child, a sheltered simpleton could believe that farcical ending. Unfortunately–though dramatized–these descriptions fit Patton, Roman and Logan in perfect slots.

No, there will never be an ending at all, from event to event, day to day, though they will close, it all continues on, no concern of the masses. The end will remain fleeting, only a forlorn future awaits.

There's no time to consider possibilities nor a minute to regain composure, for, now that he’s loose, Virgil tries frantically to sink out, imitating the sand in an hourglass. 

Panicked and without any time to think, Roman yanks on Virgil’s arm, effectively stopping him from sinking away. Roman’s actions are not without consequence for he almost drops Virgil’s arm when a piercing shriek nearly renders him deaf. 

Bucking wildly, Virgil screams and struggles, weeks of starvation rendering him feeble. All his fighting does is cause himself further agony. Physically, Roman holds him still with ease. Mentally, his resolve is weak, yearning to hold Virgil, keep him safe, to calm his cries. 

“Patton!” Roman shouts, while wrestling with the struggling side. “Lock the Mindscape!”

The eldest reacts post-haste. A perk of being the first to form, the Mindscape was created solely for him ‘till the others came into existence. For that reason, Patton is able to change it to his will far more accurately than everyone (with the–occasional–exception of Thomas).

No one gets in, no one gets out. A cage for none, a cage for all. 

With the Mindscape locked with the key hidden away, Virgil has no luck. He is aware that another escape attempt will bring a darker punishment, so he knows what to do next. He goes completely limp. Surrendering his free will and becoming a limp corpse. Both Roman and Virgil sink to the floor; each exhausted, each crying. 

Done with his fit, Virgil feels a certain numbness. Whatever happens next, whatever the pain, he feels dejection. Not anger or fear, but lone acceptance. Roman gives him release, his position switches as to face Virgil head-on like the others.

The stars no longer shine even with the lack of clouds, the sky is empty. “Kiddo?” Patton starts–Virgil startles, “Can you please look at us?” The stars must be dying, perhaps they’ve died long, long ago. Search the sky, find a star, though it may shine bright, the Earth is blind to its fade.

Chin up, eyes down, Roman, Logan and Patton gasp in horror for the sight before them. Of course they had seen Virgil’s condition prior, but nothing could prevent the dismay of seeing him in close blind-light. The abuse causes Virgil to look almost unrecognizable.

Light above, shone below, encasing the far too pale boy. Skin gleams, colours of red, green, purple and black shimmer, bouncing off like a pane glass window. Flesh worshiped of dark arts, his body a sacrifice, given as a merciless gift. The witnessing traits begin to read the ruined Bible written in Virgil’s skin.

Cut, lashed, bruised and burnt. These are the things they have now learnt.

Every inch of skin draws Logan to an obvious conclusion… Abuse. There’s nothing else these marks could mean. Virgil might as well draw a sign saying  _ I’ve been abused for weeks.  _

That wouldn’t make sense though. Logan had seen Virgil mere days before. That manner of decay would take far more time to occur. A few nights of distress could never cause the damage done. As confused as he is, horror settles first.

The pain of it all is what Patton sees. Reading between the lines for the more subtle details; some include: trembling, whimpering, crying, tensing and the most obvious, hundreds of wounds both new and old. Each glance causing a horrendous tightening of his chest, vice seemingly squeezing his heart to minute, then impossibly beyond. 

Nothing has ever scared Patton like this, nothing has ever made him feel the traumatic sorrow of now. Mourning sinks him down, the only weight holding him away from crushing Virgil to his chest is the fear of breaking the boy even more. 

Red, the colour of passion, of blood, of gore. Roman sees this red, he sees his own visions of a self-proclaimed prophecy, one which tells of revenge against the men that dared lay hands on his treasure. 

Acting involves close precision, it requires close monitoring, a personal experience of a character one has never been. Many times did Roman act, played parts of scenes he would never truly experience. More specifically, he has played a man of vengeance, someone killing in the name of a lost love. Still, that was only an act. The part was far distanced from personal experience… until now that is. 

All share this  _ red _ ! This  _ act _ !  _ This _ ! 

The ropes that bind the boy are thick, curled around like snakes, suffocating his arms which are now coloured like a setting dusk sky. 

Roman carefully touches the bindings, they’re so tight it’s a wonder how Virgil’s arms are still attached. Gaining a whimper Roman’s eyes soften, the thought of contributing to Virgil’s pain near causes him to stop. Despite Virgil holding eyes shut, clearly in much distress, Roman twists the ropes looking for a knot to untangle. 

When none is found, Roman swears under his breath, “Hand me a knife.” He cannot tear his eyes away from his poor baby brother.

Close to the kitchen is where Patton’s standing, he walks a few steps, leaning over the counter he grabs the requested item then releases it into Roman’s care. Patton can barely look, though trusting Roman completely, watching a knife so close to Virgil makes his skin crawl.

Virgil forcefully quells his struggles, he tries so hard not to move. A glint of light reflecting on both the knife and Roman’s dark concentrated eyes, the familiarity of such brings acid to his throat, he can already smell the blood. Movement, struggling, any sign of resistance is strictly forbidden, even so, time has been a nightmare, everything pounding down on him. Self-control escapes with leaps and bounds, but fear keeps it in chains.

With the precision of a surgeon, Roman works away, slicing cautiously at the bindings. 

When the rope is cut, when it slithers down Virgil’s arms, he tries lifting them, hoping to put space between him and his abusers.  _ Tries _ being a keyword, with the blood drained, the nerves numb to signals, it renders any movement a far-off dream. 

A flick of Roman’s wrist, the knife presses inches away from Virgil’s face, sending violent chills throughout him.

“Please, Stormcloud, you must stay still, I do not wish to harm you.” To most, it would sound of gentle reassurances. Unfortunately, Virgil is not most. 

Intentions ignored, Virgil shakes his head softly, silently pleading for mercy. 

As if the knife pierces Roman’s own heart, he shakes in such pain, taking several deep breaths before being able to continue. It makes a mere moment to cut, Roman pulls back the gag, stomach rolling as it peels away, the fabric had cut shallow wounds into the edge of Virgil’s mouth, blood having made it stick around his face. 

It shatters Logan, Patton and Roman’s hearts as Virgil lets out a quiet sigh of relief, as if removing the gag is a great privilege. More horror, Logan, Patton and Roman crumple as it’s revealed that a second piece of the gag still remains. It’s a filthy cloth shoved into his mouth, Virgil makes no move to spit it out, instead gagging around it. 

Patton prompts, “You can take it out.” 

Eyebrows furrow. With the information Virgil has, he knows the cloth isn’t to be removed unless given a direct order. Was that a direct order? The word “can” only means the ability to do an action; of course he “can” remove it. Is he supposed to? 

The sour taste continues to keep Virgil gagging, perhaps he should take a chance, it would be far worse to vomit onto the floor. Arms currently unless, he uses his tongue to push the piece out, mouth now feeling as dry as the wall behind him.

Immediately after, Virgil clenches his eyes shut, waiting for his, more-than-likely, punishment.

“Hey hey… you’re alright. It’s only us Virgil.” Patton’s voice is soft and comforting, nearly making Virgil melt and fall into a false sense of security. The moral side scoots his way towards the other. The closer Patton gets, the closer Virgil looks to crying. Undeterred, or unaware, Patton continues until he’s barely a foot away, open palm reaches to push Virgil’s tangled hair from obscuring his face.

Even without a thread of contact Virgil keens, a small cry of pain escaping his lungs. 

As if he were burnt, Patton reels back, heartbroken. His eyes fill with tears seeing Virgil so scared of a normally comforting action. “Sweetheart no… I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you kiddo.” 

With Virgil’s face so hidden Patton misses the look of complete disbelief. 

Logan takes a gulp of air, knowing this next event will most likely be unpleasant for everyone, Virgil most of all. “Before we discuss or take other objectives, we need to view to your wounds.” Logan says, trying to separate his emotions from this situation. It bubbles under the surface, but does not breakthrough. “Please stand, it will be easier to check you over. If you need assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.”

No delay, Virgil clambers up the wall, using it as his sole support. Legs shakily knock together, a single breath of wind would no doubt push him over. 

“Do you need help? We could at least support you.” Roman pipes up, tense, ready to leap forwards to catch Virgil should he waver. 

A shake of Virgil’s head is the only acknowledgment they receive. Unwilling to push him any further, they fade from help. 

Silently crying, flinching with every inch of fabric he pulls over his head, Virgil releases the full extent of his injuries to prying eyes. Remembering how the others would often make him strip for them to compliment him as their personal artwork, Virgil braces for the demeaning comments. 

“Oh God…” Roman cries, watching blood pour down Virgil torso, slick from newly opened wounds. From deep in his heart Roman screams, fully prepared to torture the others just as they have done to Virgil. The bloodlust is starving, ready to ravish in its next meal. 

Many of the wounds are open, bleeding sluggishly. The ones that aren’t have been sloppily wrapped with cut-out pieces of Virgil’s shirts and pants. Easy to say, Dr. Frankenstein would be proud.

Still, there’s a job to do, no more time to gape silently. 

The tender wounds all red and inflamed must be dealt with using the most delicate procedure. Noone wants to hurt Virgil more than he already is.

The filthy shirt is taken gently by Patton, he folds it carefully, patting down the creases while muttering, “Roman gave you this shirt, you were so happy to get it, it has your favourite band on it, right Honey?” No reply, not even a twitch of acknowledgement. Patton pretends Virgil gives a smile. 

Memories calm Patton, they remove his mind from the painful present, sending him somewhere he feels better. Where they all felt better. Yes, back then is a much better time than now. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it in the wash, it’s a bit dirty, Silly Boy.” No one mentions the bloody stains, nor the fact it’s torn beyond repair.

In continuation, Logan prods the boy, gently assessing the damage done. Stomach cramps form, Logan knowing they’re caused by emotional distress. Now burdened with a sore, clenched throat, he desperately wishes for appeasement. 

It’s hard to tell what is skin and what is bandage. Horribly dressed, clearly self-made, seemingly a botched paper-maché project.

“No punishment. No please.” Virgil sounds so young, so scared and in so much pain. 

“Honey, no.” Patton softly coos, face crumpled in sorrow, “This isn’t a punishment, I promise.” 

Silence reigns once more, Roman, Logan and Patton working as a well-oiled machine, each made for a specific task. The unwrapping of toxic bandages is Roman’s duty. Disinfection goes to Logan. Then, Patton ends with rubbing a soothing cream into Virgil’s marred skin.

Those stubborn cloths, peeling away like sap on a tree, glued firmly onto skin. Other cloths have begun assimilating into its new environment. Each attempt at removing them, spills blood. It’s a wonder that Virgil still has blood to bleed.

On a harsh tug, a large patch of skin is ripped away; Virgil cries out trying to pull away from the pain. “Please, Sir! Stop please Sir!” 

This caused them to freeze. Horrifically, Virgil doesn't even seem to notice anything ammis as if it’s normal for him to call them sir. Further gruesome conclusions form in everyone’s minds.

“Kiddo…” The right words slip away, only small mutters and whimpers fall. 

Roman’s voice cracks horribly, “Ok. Ok. We’re stopping. Don’t worry. We shall skip-on to the bath.”

The mention of a bath causes Virgil’s face to turn at a neck-breaking pace; for the first time in the past hour he shows so much more from the blank expression of before. Absolute horror strikes across him, the little bit of blood which remained, turned-tail and ran, leaving a paper white sheet. He begins shaking from head to feet, violent tremors seize his very core.

“Woah. Hey, it’s fine. It’s just a bath.” Roman says, taken aback from the instant shift in mood. Bit by bit Roman scoots his way closer, hoping to stave off the inevitable.

The enclosed space created by Roman and two walls, sends Virgil into a full-fledged panic attack. Shallow panting, uneven breaths, chest shaking, Virgil, taking his last breath, waiting for strong jaws to snap around his neck. 

A butterfly in a tornado, Virgil’s mind flutters helplessly over the cyclone of memories. 

_ No! Hot! Too hot! No! Get away! Stop pushing! More heat! Hot! Too hot! Can’t breathe! Can’t move! Too hot! Too! Hot! ToohotstoppleasetoohotcantmoveohpleASEPLEASESTOPITHURTSITBURNSITNBURNS!  _ **_OH GOD IT HURTS!_ **

Aimless screams, Virgil cries, throwing his weight back and forth, feeling stilled by invisible hands and silenced by unseen water.

Patton lets out a guttural cry of utter panic at the first crack of bone. Over and over-harder and harder does Virgil bash his skull against the wall. 

Dealing with stress is no longer accomplished by deep breathes or slow counting, now pain reigns over all. Whenever Virgil panics he gets hurt. This is law. Written in blood and signed with tears. Acceptance is survival, the sole reason Virgil still stands. 

“VIRGIL! NO!” Roman shrieks while trying to restrain the flailing boy. “STOP IT!” 

“No! Don’t restrain him! It will do more harm than good!” Maybe he’s thinking of seizures, maybe he’s reacting in a state of panic, but Logan can’t help but picture a bloody, brain spilled stain of their wall. A concaving skull is not a decoration piece any of them want to possess.

Roman breaks him out of his nightmarish reverie. “Logan! We need to calm him down! He’s going to hurt himself!”

Like a very dedicated metal fan, Virgil head-bangs up and down against a reddening wall. Patton has placed a pillow as a barrier yet the trait shows no sign of stopping. 

There’s no more time, Logan has to lead. “We will have to restrain him.” 

“But you said–”

“I know what I said!” Logan snaps.

A spur of action ignites. Three darts strike out, Roman forcefully entrapping Virgil into a constricting hug. “It’s ok, it’s ok. Please stop fighting.” Pressing his face into the top of the broken traits hair, hiding his own cracks in armour. 

A turning point, Logan pulls a small mask from thin air, it hisses a high-pitch wail. 

“Nooo…” Virgil moans weakly, staring at the threatening device. “Please, Please,” He begs, hands reaching for nothing, “I don’t want to die…” 

Patton begins retching, the taxing situation coupled by the fact that he’s witness to the suffering boy takes its toll. The other two share horrified glances, even the ever-stoic Logan gushes tears. 

To see such a sight drives men mad, more so sorrowful, the very idea of harming–nonetheless  _ killing– _ Virgil leaves such a repulsive taste it’s a wonder they’ve not doubled-over, fighting against their lurching stomachs.

Roman pleads back, “No, Stormcloud. We’d never. Please believe us, Stormcloud.” 

Once Virgil’s violent spasms end, Roman moves in across the shaking boy: there’s little resistance when Roman tucks Virgil close to his chest. “It’s ok. You’re going to be fine. We’re here now.” Endless soothing words spill from Roman’s mouth, it’s all he can do as small pleads of mercy still stream about.

With Roman holding him down and Virgil’s head safe from (anymore) trauma, Patton dives to Logan–being held as Virgil is. There’s no hesitation from anyone, accepting each other into deepening hugs.

They watch–no longer muffling their sobs–as Virgil’s cries get softer and his struggles become feeble. In a death grip, Patton continues to clutch Roman and Logan, the only support he trusts; they hold him with matching intensity.

As Virgil stills, so do the others. No one feels able to move nor do they wish to. The sobbing of Patton, the silent rage from Roman, combined with the blurred confoundment of Logan, create a visual melody of sorrows. All they do is stare in silence, processing this before them in whatever way they can.

“Logan?” Patton’s voice is small, a frail tone to be broken by the faintest of pressure. “What do we do?” 

A large pause, an empty room devoid of noise. The very world around them pauses in a state of shock.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Logan, attempts to compose himself, “I… I suppose this will be an ideal state to tend to him.” 

And so, they move on.

.

Underestimating the weight of anything is an easy mistake. Grabbing a bag, locking muscles to prepare for handling its weight, then lifting; only to discover that the weight was far overestimated as the bag flies into the air. 

Roman holding Virgil is a prime example. Picking Virgil off the ground, Roman near cries, “Dear Lord,” that catches the attention of his fellow sides. “He’s so light!” Despair drips off his tongue. “He weighs nothing!” 

Patton shift forwards, searching for peace, “Calm down, Roman. Everything is fine.” 

Roman allows none, despair quells any peace mustered. “NO! You don’t understand! He weighs nothing…” His voice breaks. 

For what feels like the hundredth time today, silent is heard. 

Virgil’s head lolls, neck bending back in a way that would surely leave painful knots in his muscles.

“Roman! You need to support his neck.” Logan instructs, “With this level of malnourishment Virgil’s bones will be extremely weak.” 

The previous bridal hold is broken, Roman starts shifting Virgil, now the hold is similar to how one carries an infant. Roman is ever so reminded how small Virgil is compared with the others. Cries soon break the silence as he presses his forehead to his baby brother’s, hugging him as tight as he dares, injuries carefully avoided.

It’s easy to carry Virgil up the stairs, it’s not easy convincing Patton to release Virgil’s deformed hand. 

The rest of Virgil’s clothes are shimmied away. There’s no choice for Patton than to look away, the horrid welts causing him to throw his hands over his eyes. “I don’t… how could…” Words fail, the plague of this horror is never relenting. “Why did they do this?”

No one has an answer. 

The large porcelain, square shaped bathtub sits precisely in the mid of Roman’s bathroom, perfectly accessible from any angle. Down into the cradle, Roman sets Virgil softly, letting his bundle slip from his hold.

It’s easy to place the battered boy into the running water, it’s not easy to stay stoic as the bathwater quickly turns to the colour of muddled pink. 

More water soon splashes among the tub walls, settling gently at the bottom. Warm for comfort, no warmer than so. It would not be comfortable to expose wounds to hot water, 

The softest of touches and cotton cloths rub over damaged skin, Virgil no longer reacts. Not even a halted breath or stifled whine. 

If it wasn’t for the outburst earlier, it would seem that Virgil is well at peace. 

No one even wants to touch Virgil. Fragile like glass, tender as a bruise, fear for a single touch will call for death. They have to, but they don’t want to.

Using detachable shower head to spray lightly over skin, Logan makes quick work of ridding the first layer of filth. Unbelievably as the grime fades away, Virgil’s skin becomes whiter and whiter, him looking more like a corpse than anything else.

Dried blood, dirt, sticky who-knows-what and what must be vomit are all scrubbed. So many emotions fly around the room; cold anger, disgust, horror, despair and more. 

Little by little these emotions get the better of Roman and Patton. They both stare a little harder, hands washing a little harsher.

A small slip of a hand scrubs against a noticeably deep cut. The reaction is immediate. 

“No...-no-no! Please, Sir... I di’n’t... mean to... ’m sorr’, Sir...” Virgil mumbles, as much as possible whilst still far from conscious. 

Something in Roman snaps.

Face as red as fire, and anger burning as such, Roman stands. “I’m going to kill them! They will bleed by the blade of my sword! I’ll cage them in the underworld! They’ll never see daylight, I assure you!” 

The situation is getting out of hand. Patton rises to meet Roman’s gaze, ever the pacifists, places his hand gently on the fuming side’s chest. “You need to calm down, everything’s alright.” He soothes, yet with bitter tone.

Heart and soul fighting, both filled with angry passion, “You keep saying that! Do you call  _ this _ alright?!” Roman gestures frantically, “Are you  _ blind _ ?!” He takes to throwing his hands in the air, pacing restlessly. “ _ Look _ at him!” He needn’t say more. 

Clearly in distress, Virgil starts breathing heavily, eyes open but unseeing; only hearing the anger of the loud voices above him. 

Among the fighting, Logan idly watches, attention fallen from Virgil. In the cacophony of anger, another, weaker noise is heard. This snaps Logan back to the-now conscious-trait, who’s struggling and crying anew. Fantastic, from one terrible situation to the next. Virgil is never allowed to catch a break.

“STOP!” Logan yells, instantly regretting it when the small body beneath him whimpers, trying to sink away. “Oh, dearest. I apologize. I did not mean to distress you.” Logan rubs his thumb over Virgil’s gaunt cheek, wiping away the tears that fall. 

Thankfully, both Roman and Patton cease their pointless argument and turn silent. 

“Roman, please go assure the bed is prepared. Patton, I need you to cook some simple broth. I am able to handle this matter on my own.”

“But-” 

“Patton please, Virgil will need something simple to eat.” 

With that, two of the four disappear. Logan now focusing all his attention on Virgil.

Every so often, Virgil’s eyes would de-haze, focusing on Logan’s own eyes. This turns out two different-and very separate-reaction. 

The first. Seemingly like a bulb, Virgil recognizes Logan, brightening and babbling. 

“Hello Dear,” Logan says, “I’ve missed you.” 

In return, Virgil reaches his shaky hands upwards, trying to grasp for his older brother. 

As a practised dance, Logan reacts in turn, leaning down and taking this time to clean the boy’s hands. “There you go, my love. 

The second reaction is much less wanted. As his eyes focus, Virgil beings to cry. Though his body is heavy, his movements clumsy, Virgil does his best to push away as far as possible (which is not very far at all (him being in a bathtub))

It kills Logan, the fear, rejection and pain so visible expressed. “I’m so sorry,” He whispers knowing full-well his words fly above Virgil’s comprehension. “I swear to you that no more harm will befall you.” 

Every single second, more injuries are revealed, more reasons to lose control and spew hate among the masses. 

Right now, right here, Logan knows it’s not the time for these emotions to boil over. That’s another reason why Logan forced the other sides away (aside from the fact that Virgil was scared), he didn't want them to see him break.

He needs to be strong for them, for Virgil. If he has to suppress his emotions even further, then that’s what he’s going to do. Anything for his family. 

Logan threads his hand through Virgil hair, squinting in disgust when colours of red, green and brown swirl down the drain. He wasn’t disgusted at Virgil, no he could never be. His disgust came from Virgil’s state, abuse reaching from the soles of his feet to the top of his hair. Logan’s disgust is in the ones who left Virgil in such a state.

The drugs draw Virgil further into his foggy security. The soft touches from above coupled by a face he so unconditionally loves. This here is a wish granted, kind hands, calm noises and even better, Logan looking down at him lovingly.

In his haze, Virgil gives a drunk-like smile. Logan feels his heart soar with joy while at the same time crushing, a literal heartbreak.

“There you go my beloved.” Logan continues to wash the grim and blood off Virgil. 

Every bruise, lash and burn sending him further into sorrow. “They took everything from you.” Logan pauses, biting down on his fist, restraining from breaking down. Tracing the wounds, all he can do is hope for the best. “I promise, we will fix this, Dearheart. We will fix this no matter how long it takes.”

Despite knowing the small side cannot register his words, Logan smiles and nods when Virgil babbles out an incomprehensible phrase. “Little-one, your smile warms my heart far more than the sun ever could.”

His smile falls, noticing that the moment his hands touch Virgil, the small trait curls around it., clearly so touch-starved, but when awake so very scared of just that. Apparently, Logan loses himself to his thoughts, pulling-out when Virgil mewls–a distressed kitten seeking out the warmth of a hand now absent. 

“There, there.” A deep rumble sounds from Logan’s chest. Of the many towels strewn about Logan makes sure to pick the finest of the bunch. Nothing less than perfect, Virgil deserves and  _ needs  _ only the gentlest of handling. 

Lifting Virgil is far too easy. With a single arm he scoops the, worryingly small, side out from the draining water. Logan wishes for everyone’s fears and traumas to drain away with it. Yet, ‘tis only a thought. Silly wishes get you nowhere, wishing on a dying star, poisoning a well with copper, blowing out flames on a pastry, it all falls to none. 

“There, there,” Logan soothes, “I will fix your temperature soon enough.” He’s discouraged by the fact that it’s one of the only things he can fix. 

Before he can do that, there’s another pressing matter to attend to. All the wounds must be properly wrapped, lessening the chance of infection. That would be a punch in the face courtesy of life itself if Virgil somehow ended up in septic shock. 

All goes well, Virgil still too-far gone to feel the effects of disinfectants and bandage wrappings. 

Now, Logan swaddles Virgil in fresh blankets, spending a long moment to study Virgil’s battered face. 

Finally finished, Logan scoops Virgil protectively in his arms. Hugging him closer when they exit the bathroom.

The pillows are fluffed, the bed is clean, all looks pristine, a perfect framed photo. Still with all that perfection, Roman paces restlessly; he touches every surface, cleaning all that come away with dust; he .

Logan and a bundle of towels slip from the bathroom door. In an instant, Roman rushes over, looking into the wide array of cloth. 

“Greetings Stormcloud!” Roman says still agitated, giving off an unnerved, frantic energy.” 

Virgil cries out softly, eyes still unfocused, him mostly reacting by force of habit. Virgil grips onto his support more firmly, small hands twisting around Logan’s shirt.

“Perhaps you should go and clean up in there?” Logan points his gaze to the bathroom while looking at Roman’s heartbroken visage.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Grateful for the elegant out, Roman rushes into the room behind him. 

After Roman’s exit, Virgil leans his weight further into Logan’s grasp, clearly more at ease. Leaning into the warmth, leaning into what feels like home.

“Yes, little one. You are safe. I assure it.” Logan whispers, pressing his lips to Virgil’s now cleaned hair. 

In a beat, Patton returns, soup in hand, gaze snapping to the other two in the room.

  
Immediately, the bowl is set down. Broth spilling over the edge in Patton’s haste.

“Please let me hold him!” Patton shouts pulling at Logan, with Logan’s still refusal, Patton then lashes out in a mix of anguish and frustration. 

Logan backs away from Patton, attempting to deescalate the situation.

He shoves Logan, sending him stumbling backwards. Jostled, Virgil shrieks, burrowing further into Logan’s grasp.

At the sounds of fear, Patton seemingly snaps back to reality.

Patton looks around, from Virgil to Logan, horrified at what he has done. Before Logan can even breathe, Patton shakes his head in horror of his actions, then darts from the room. 

“Patton-” Logan starts.

Roman appears from the–presumably–clean bathroom as he gauges the situation, “I’ll retrieve him, fear not.” He darts from the room tracking Patton down.

Locating Patton is easily done. Just follows the sounds of despair, the trail of teardrops, along with the broken-hearted cries. There, Roman finds him, it comes as no surprise the emotional side resides behind Virgil’s door.

Confrontations such as these are never simple. Patton is always quick to emote, and at this moment he is already a ticking time-bomb. Any wrong words or movement will certainly cause Patton to explode. 

Cautiously, Roman takes a step into the lion’s den. He meant to talk to Patton, meant to open his mouth and comfort him, but the words are lost upon his tongue as the full situation reveals itself. 

From the little light drifting from the hall, Patton can be seen crouching over, tears pouring, rocking shakily back and forth. Unable to hold his hurting son, Patton found an old sweater, he clutches it with a desperate need. Patton hugs it as if that could piece back his family. 

He weeps, “Papa’s here, baby. Pappa’s here, Papa’s got you...”

.

.

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_ Answer : Almost _   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for such a long wait. After this fic I have a much better writing plan. I will be posting faster (I really hope). Thanks for sticking around.

**Author's Note:**

> Most abuse doesn't exist over night. Gradually, the victim is manipulated into thoughts of, "they didn't really mean it" "they say they'll never do it again". This isn't healthy, abuse builds itself, becoming worse and worse overtime. Look for the signs and learn to protect yourself. 
> 
> I love you guys and hope you will stay safe.


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